


Invalid Beings

by vienn_peridot



Series: Syngnath Chronicles [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU: Syngnath, Aftercare, Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Complicated Relationships, Courtship, Dark, Developing Relationship, Dodgy Alien Biology, Egg Laying, Energy Field Sexual Interfacing, Feels, Filial Cannibalism, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Incubator!Ratchet, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Miscarriage, Mutual Pining, Other, Ovaria!Drift, Oviposition, Prostitution, Self-Harm, Sticky, Stillbirth, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Unethical Experimentation, for a while, unedited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 29,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2493752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dead End. Rodion.<br/>Where the unwanted of Cybertronian society go to die.<br/>Ratchet risks exposing his true nature in the heart of the Cybertronian empire to save the life of one of his own.</p><p>PLEASE READ AUTHORS NOTE AT START OF FIC REGARDING THE UNEDITED STATE OF THIS FIC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drift

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Anon on Tumblr who sent me [two](http://adhesivesandscrap.tumblr.com/post/100612863016/it-had-been-painful-getting-to-that-point-of-his) utterly [heartbreaking](http://adhesivesandscrap.tumblr.com/post/100625782206/my-pleasure-he-wished-to-do-anything-to-make-them) little Ovaria!Drift minifics based on my Syngnathi headcanons.  
> Since I'm currently sick as a dog with Fresher Flu this is unedited. I'm just spellchecking and flinging this up because my brain really can't handle much more than that. Multiple posts may go up in a day, but the quality and flow of writing will vary greatly depending on how high my temperature is on any given day.  
> I may come back and rewrite this in future when I have time.

#  One: Drift

Drift staggered through the Dead End, arms wrapped around his abdomen, bouncing off walls as he stumbled towards his destination.

There was only one thought left in his processors: Find the Medic.

Find the Medic and hope that he could fix this, whatever it was.

Find the Medic and hope that he hadn’t misread the subtle hint he’d given Drift that day he’d awoken to find himself in better repair than he’d been in since he’d onlined.

_“You’re special kid, I can tell”_

The words haunted the Speedster as he fetched up against a wall, panting through his vents in short, hard gasps. He burned; his entire frame felt like it should be glowing the bright reds of near-molten metal.

_“You’re special kid, I can tell”_

No subglyphs, no modifiers, no harmonics to make his meaning clear. Simple, plain glyphs and an EM Field Drift wanted to wrap himself in. The big red-and-blue lawbot glowering in threat from the corner.

_“You’re special kid, I can tell.”_

A subtle change to optics, gentle pressure from the hand against his freshly-repaired plating. Unreadable pulse and ripple from the dense, velvety EM field.

_“Now get out there and prove me right!”_

Drift moaned brokenly and pushed himself up from the wall, forging onwards. He hadn’t, had he? He hadn’t even _tried_ to prove the medic right. He’d gone right back to boosters and Syk, abusing the gift of repairs in hopes of escaping the Pit he lived in for a precious few joors under the electrochemical influence of the drugs.

He’d done this to himself and he probably deserved it. What right did Drift have to go back and ask for help?

But he still had to try.

If he was lucky, the Medic would give him a painless offlining in return for whatever he could salvage from Drift’s frame afterwards.

Because he’d been right about one thing, if misguided in his choice of words.

What the Medic called ‘special’, others could more accurately call ‘Freak’.

Monster.

 _Syngnath_.


	2. Ratchet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming that readers are familiar with Syngnath headcanons as established in my fic 'In Plain Sight' and further explained on [my Tumblr.](http://adhesivesandscrap.tumblr.com/tagged/syngnath-headcanons)

# Two: Ratchet

Ratchet was tidying up the tiny surgical room of his drop-in clinic in the Dead End of Rodion. The place was appropriately named. One way in, no way out except offlining for those who landed there.

His thoughts wandered as practised servos went through the familiar motions of cleaning up, drawn to the memory of the beaten-up young guttermech Orion Pax had brought in. The Medic’s clumsy attempt at coded speech resonated through his helm, taunting him.

_“You’re special kid, I can tell.”_

UGH what a stupid thing to say! But how else was he supposed to convey recognition to another Syngnathi in a more obvious way with Orion _right there?_ Anything more obvious would have gotten them both hauled away for experimental purposes and sparked a witch hunt in the Dead End the likes of which Cybertron hadn’t seen in centuries.

Nope, he’d just have to hope the kid figured it out and came back of his own volition.

Idly, Ratchet wondered if the speedster had been some kind of neuter. The younger mech’s frame had been so badly damaged by drugs and beatings that it had been hard to pinpoint his exact age. It was extremely rare these days for a Syngnath to go so chronically undernourished that they never reached maturity, but if it was to happen anywhere it would happen here, in the lowest place of the gutters of Cybertron.

How had the kid even _gotten_ here? Coming to Cybertron unprepared was practically suicide!

No matter how the kid ‘Drift’ had gotten here; both as his elder an as an Incubator Ratchet owed him a debt of care.

The only way to repay the sacrifices of past generations was to safeguard the next.

Maybe he could ask around. The kid didn’t exactly have a common designation, after all. He could start next time he was down here, ask his patients. He did already check up on a few of them, after all.

Having a plan of action made the Medic feel much better. Making an internal memo to himself, he gave the small clinic a final once-over and let himself out onto the street, locking the door and folding his frame into his vehicular altmode for the trip home.


	3. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand things start going south for Drift

# Three: Drift

He didn’t make it to the clinic.

He didn’t even make it near.

Instead of carrying him towards the tiny sliver of hope that was Ratchet’s cobbled-together Medbay Drift’s pedes turned of their own will, sending him down into the bowels of Rodion.

The Ovaria didn’t know what he was doing; all he knew was that he needed to hide, to find somewhere safe. If he was going to die, the last thing he wanted was to spend the final moments of his life lying out in the open for someone to abuse at will.

He had a little bolthole that nobody knew about, tucked away down here in the dark. It was in the same block as Ratchet’s clinic but several levels deeper into Cybertron’s substructure. Eons ago, when Rodion was richer and the surface of Cybertron had been several levels lower it would have been the storage cellar of a shop.

Now it was Drift’s safe haven.

One time when he’d been higher than the moons on some strange cocktail of boosters and Syk, he’d somehow managed to steal a battered berth pad that a brothel had been throwing out. Now it lined his little hideaway. He didn’t mind that the stains of other mechs fluids covered it. He’d had the same -and worse- pumped into or splattered onto his frame during his functioning. A stained berth pad was nothing.

Something moved in his abdomen and Drift panicked.

Frantic and heedless of danger, the young Ovaria dropped his Cybertronian disguise and sent his claws unerringly towards the source of the movement. Eight hooked talons pierced starvation-thinned armour, slicing into protoform so swiftly there was a delay before energon rose to the surface to run in sluggish streams to the floor. Optical lubricants ran down Drift’s face, hissing into steam at the heat his frame was producing. He tensed, bracing himself to rip the foreign object from his frame.

Something stopped him.

What was that sound?

The Ovaria paused, vents silenced and claws sheathed in his own belly as he listened intently.

It was a hum. Someone was humming.

It was _him_.

As soon as he realised where the hum was coming from, it stopped. He’d been humming to himself a lot lately. He couldn’t figure out why, putting it down to the unfamiliar luxury of repairs and the odd warmth that had filled his frame not long afterwards. He couldn’t keep doing that, silence was life down here in the dark.

Dazedly the Ovaria retracted his energon-stained claws, pressing his forearms over the wounds in a pathetic attempt to halt their leaking. He wasn’t far now, he’d spend the nightcycle in his little haven and approach the Medic in the morning. Could he even make it that far? His pedes felt like they each weighed as much as a triplechanger and it felt like his belly was trying to explode through his armour.

All Drift wanted to do was lie on the filthy ground and wait for it all to go away.

_“You’re special, kid. . . .Prove me right.”_

The memory of that gruff voice spurred Drift back into motion. He shuffled, feet on autopilot, lurching awkwardly through the bowels of Rodion until he reached the half-hidden trapdoor leading up into his sanctuary and pulled himself inside.


	4. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet notices an odd smell drifting on the air

# Four: Ratchet

There was a strange smell to the air of the Dead End tonight. It teased Ratchet’s chemoreceptors with yearning awareness, forcing him to stop and reassume his Cybertronian form to better analyse it.

There was no mistaking the compounds brought to his specially calibrated sensors. Somewhere nearby there was another of his kind. Another Syngnathi was somewhere in the Dead End.

This other wasn’t an Incubator like him.

_That_ scent could only be produced by an Ovaria in heat.

The chemicals produced by an Ovaria in heat could affect even ordinary Cybertronians. There would be attacks and rapes aplenty before the night was over. Hopefully the Ovaria wouldn’t be one of the corpses.

Without his conscious direction, Ratchet’s pedes carried him after that delightful scent. He moved farther into the stews, new knowledge and old predatory instinct blending deep within him.

Any mechs who saw the way he was moving stayed far away. The few who were stupid enough to ignore the danger signs were repulsed the instant they came in contact with the strength of his roiling EM field.

_Power/Threat/Danger/ **Hunter**_.

It promised death to anyone who came between the Medic and the object of his search.

Wherever the Ovaria was, they had hidden well. They would have had to. From the makeup of the chemical trail he was following Ratchet could tell they were close to laying. That was when an Ovaria was at their most vulnerable. He needed to find the other before someone else did.

Ratchet had severe doubts about the existence of another Incubator in the Dead End, but if the Ovaria was already claimed then the pair would likely appreciate extra protection while the clutch was transferred.

If the Ovaria’s heat-scent was this strong, there was no doubt that normal Cybertronians would have noticed it too.

_Find/Defend/Protect_

He had to get there before it was too late.


	5. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift lays his eggies

# Five: Drift

As soon as he made it inside Drift felt his interface panels fly open and a great gush of lubricant surged from his valve. With a startled shout he tipped forward, crashing down onto the salvaged berth pad on hands and knees.

He tried to drag himself into a comfortable position but found himself frozen, unable to move as all the heat within his frame seemed to concentrate on his valve.

What the frag was _happening_ to him?

His insides squirmed, forcing more lubricant from his valve. It felt gloopy and strange as it hung from his valve in ropes instead of running to the berth pad and Drift tried to reach a hand between his legs to feel the difference.

He couldn’t move his arm.

Further attempts to move his limbs informed the terrified mech that _he couldn’t move anything._

A pleasant tingling in his lower body kept him from panicking.

Whatever was going on, it didn’t feel bad.

On the contrary, it felt good. Very, _very_ good.

The Ovaria gritted his denta and tried not to moan as the heat and tingling combined into a terrible pleasure, overwhelming the insistent ache of Syk craving and the sharper throb from the still-bleeding stab wounds on his stomach. His hissing ventilations jerked as something breached his valve with a weird slurping noise, sending waves of bliss crashing through his neural net.

Drift got lost in alternating waves of mindless pleasure and horrible lucidity where he was aware of something protruding from where his valve should be and a growing pile of small warm ovals beneath him on the lubricant-drenched berth.

Eventually an overload stronger than anything he’d known in his existence crashed over the Ovaria and swept him into sweet oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a buymecha, Drift would be out-of-touch with his body and used to dissociating himself from the abuse it goes through.  
> As an addict and abuser of circuit boosters, I figure a lot of his sensory system would be blown out by the effects of the drugs.  
> Hence Ovaria!Drift not noticing many of the physical changes that Ovaria!Blurr did when it came time to lay.  
> Drift is running off pure instinct.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet tracks the mysterious Ovaria

# Six: Ratchet

A stronger puff of the Ovaria’s olfactory marker came from below. The Medic looked down to see a narrow vent-slit from one of the lower levels and crouched close, inhaling deeply.

Yes; they had gone down there.

A quick search located access to the next layer of Cybertron’s substructure and the Incubator dropped to land easily on his pedes, EM field lashing out in a quick search of the area.

He was alone.

Moving as fast as he could, his biolights cast eerie reddish-orange reflections on moisture-streaked walls as Ratchet tracked his quarry through the bowels of the Dead End. His sensor-laden chevron and the horns discreetly disguised as projections from the side of his help allowed him to taste the atmosphere around him, drawing ever nearer to the hidden Ovaria.

Apart from the occasional scurry of small Cybertronian mechanimals he couldn’t detect the EM field of another living being. Ratchet stepped over the greyed-out frame of a junkie who’d come down here to die and hurried off down a side shaft, guided by the strengthening of the heat-scent. He could feel his systems begin to warm in response, Cybertronian spike stirring within its housing. The superstitious mecha of the Dead End rarely ventured this far below their domain, fear of Spark Eaters and other monsters keeping them close to the surface and the dubious safety of numbers.

The trail seemed to be leading back towards the area his little half-aft Medbay was, the drop-in clinic that he’d been heading home from when he scented the Ovaria.

The heat-scent was so thick on the air now that Ratchet could taste it, thick and warm against his glossa, a delightful fog that made his engine hum with pleasure and his plating itch against protoform with the desire to assume it’s proper shape.

_No. **Focus**._

Ratchet forced down the urge to assume his Syngnathi form, which would be too tall for the tunnel he was currently crawling though. Whoever this Ovaria was, they had certainly been determined not to be found. Basic, life-saving paranoia combined with the nesting impulse meant solitary Ovaria could get into some pretty weird little places when they were driven to lay. All Ratchet could do was hope that the nest would be large enough for him to enter when he found it. He was coming across disturbing smears of energon in the detritus of the tunnel floor.

The Ovaria was injured.

_Slag slag slag slag slag SLAG_.


	7. Drift

# Seven: Drift

Drift onlined slowly, trying to figure out where he was and what had happened to him. He lay curled on his side on something soft. He could smell the pungent underbelly of the Dead End, which when combined with the softness meant that he was probably in his little bolthole somewhere near that Medic’s clinic.

The clinic.

The _Medic_.

He was supposed to be going to see the Medic called Ratchet, the one who might be able to help him with whatever was wrong with his frame.

Except Drift didn’t feel hot any more.

He felt cold, and there was something the same temperature as he was pressing against his front.

He onlined his optics, the power drain sucking the dim glow from his biolights, but not too fast for Drift to catch a brief glimpse of what he lay curled around.

They were eggs.

_His_ eggs.

He had _eggs?!_

Wonderingly, Drift ran a delicate claw over the smooth curve of one of the tough silicone membranes, feeling the hum start in his vocaliser again.

He had _eggs_.

Cleaning his clutch as best he could with claws and glossa, Drift tried to figure out what he was going to do. He was so cold, and the eggs were even colder. That couldn’t be good.

In fact, he could feel their outer membranes hardening in a way that felt distinctly unhealthy to him. It was almost the same as the protoform of a corpse.

Terrified denial surged through Drift’s systems, bringing his biolights back online with a flare of light.

The eggs.

They were a silver-swirled and dark, tinged with the remnants of a once-healthy magenta.

Dull, dark and lifeless.

A broken shriek burst from the Ovaria’s vocaliser before he could stop himself and he wrapped his body around his clutch as his biolights flickered offline again. The darkness of his little safe haven slid into Drift, flowing in through his vents and sinking down into an unresisting spark. Dazed by energon loss, stress and the exertion of laying, Drift’s mind slipped into a downwards spiral.

His eggs were dead.

What use was he?

His eggs were dead.

He was nothing.

His eggs were dead.

He was _less_ than nothing.

Drift was an addict, a buymech, a piece of trash dumped in the gutters of Rodion to die with the rest of the unwanted of Cybertron.

He was so worthless not even his eggs had wanted him. They had died instead of staying with a pathetic piece of scrap like Drift.

Tightening his hold on his lifeless clutch, Drift felt extraneous systems begin to shut down.

Good.

He’d be with them soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More coming. Will finish this up tomorrow. I need sleep. Drift needs cuddles. Stupid Fresher Flu.


	8. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet gets the surprise of his life

# Eight: Ratchet

At the undeniable evidence that there was a receptive Ovaria nearby, undeniably injured, protective rage surged within Ratchet and his control over his frame slipped briefly.

Curving, scalpel-sharp claws erupted from the end of his fingers and the tiny winglike fins decorating the sides of his helm lengthened and drifted forwards and up, settling to echo the points of his sharpened chevron in an elegant quartet of daggerlike white projections. His vision blurred and sharpened as the visual inlets of his optics changed from safe Cybertronian circles into the feral slitted shapes of a Syngnath.

A brief internal battle locked the transformation sequence down before it could do more than make the initial changes to his frame.

The energon was still fresh. Ratchet couldn’t afford to reassume his proper dimensions and get stuck now.

A strange noise unlike anything he’d ever heard before echoed through the darkness, the origin of the sound being surprisingly close. The sound was broken and full of horror, _surely_ a living mechanism hadn’t produced _that_!  It prompted the Medic to risk extending his EM field.

Ratchet searched, straining against the limits of his perception. After what felt like an eternity of breathless effort he felt something. The barest brush of another EM field against his own.

Only one EM field.

The field was faint and weak, as if the other Syngnathi was unconscious or very, very weak. It no longer contained the resonances of Heat, so the Ovaria must have already delivered their eggs.

Whoever it was, the Ovaria was alone and injured, nesting abandoned in the underdark of the Dead End.

Incubator and Medic coding were backed by thundering outrage from the spark that powered his frame. The whole situation was _not right_ in so many fundamental ways. No Ovaria should be alone like this.

At that instant, no matter who the unknown Ovaria was Ratchet would have taken on the Unmaker himself in their defence.

The Incubator started a gentle thrumming with vocaliser and engine, transmitting the frequency as best he could through his field in hopes that the other would recognise it and allow him to help.

Slowly, his sense of the Ovaria’s field strengthened; nervous wisps sampling the soothing wash of power he projected. The field felt familiar in some odd way, but Ratchet put that down to the instinctive recognition of _kin_ that Syngnath experienced when encountering another of their kind and dismissed it, risking a short-range comm in the direction of the Ovaria’s EM field.

::It’s alright. I’m Syngnathi; like you. I’m a Medic. Please let me help::

The answer he received silenced his hum with a strangled sound as his fuel pump stalled.

::R-Ratchet?::

Stealth forgotten, the Medic scrambled in the direction of the other’s field, unconsciously following an silent guide as the pressure of the Ovaria’s field shifted against his own. Straight, left turn, down one, straight again, two sharp rights and _up_ through the hatch on the wall and . . .

“ ** _Kid?!_** ”


	9. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift's flawed self-perceptions are somewhat painful to watch.

# Nine: Drift

He was fading, he could feel it.

It wasn’t fast enough.

There was. . . something. Something at the edge of his awareness. Tugging him back up from the abyss.

Drift tried to tell it to go away, to leave him alone, but his vocaliser was offline. No amount of trying could get it to awaken and produce sound, so he gave up.

What _was_ that thing, anyway?

He tested it, thoughts too clouded by cold and impending shutdown to really process what he was doing.

It felt. . . nice. Warm. Warm and supportive and comfortable in a way that made the dazed Ovaria want to wrap himself in it.

Oh, it was an EM field. A nice one that felt safe. Where was it coming from?

A comm message shot through Drift’s haze with a jolt like jamming his arm into the main power grid.

::It’s alright. I’m Syngnathi; like you. I’m a Medic. Please let me help::

He knew that voice. Recognised that EM field.

It. . . it couldn’t be.

::R-Ratchet?::

Drift wasn’t sure if his reply made it through, his HUD was flickering in a sickly way with warnings he couldn’t concentrate on. The dead clutch was like a weight on his spark, guilt and misery holding everything else at bay.

He pushed everything he could spare into keeping contact with that wonderful field as an antidote to the grief, feeling the other Syngnath moving and trying to imagine where they were. _Around and straight and maybe a few turns and then look up_.

The Medic’s EM field felt like it vibrating all the way through Drift’s depleted frame by the time he heard movement from the trapdoor. Onlining his optics, he could make out strong, healthy biolighting and slitted optics in a gloriously familiar face. Ratchet had shed parts of his Cybertronian disguise and Drift could see slitted optics and sharp, handsome white horns mirroring the chevron on his forehelm.

Oh.

**Oh**.

He was _gorgeous_.

“Ratchet.” The Ovaria shunted power he shouldn’t away from vital systems, desperate to communicate “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do. I-I tried to come see you but I wasn’t sure an-and n-now they’re. . . they’re d-dead.”

Drift’s vents stalled and struggled while he keened silently, no strength left to hide his shame from the other Syngnath.

What was the point?

The Medic could see it all for himself.

Drift's eggs were dead.

He was a hopeless malfunction.

All he could do was wait and hope that he offlined quickly during the beating that would surely come.


	10. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Medic; meet your patient.

# Ten: Ratchet

Pale optics unshuttered, their glow barely strong enough to cast light on the upper curve of the cheeks below them.

This close, the EM field was unmistakable.

It was Drift.

The booster-fried Syk whore he’d assumed to be some sort of strange neutered Syngnath was, in fact, an Ovaria.

An Ovaria who’d just had to endure hell in the dark sewers of Rodion.

“Ratchet.” The speedster’s voice was slurred, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do. I tried to come see you but I wasn’t sure an-and n-now they’re. . they’re d-dead.”

Vents hitched in the dark, the Ovaria’s frame so cold that Ratchet could barely differentiate it from the walls of his den, even with the enhanced senses he gained by having his horns out. The air was heavy with the scent of laying, valve lubricant, distressed Ovaria and a disturbing note of spilled energon. Not daring to risk freaking the kid out with active scans, Ratchet analysed what he could pick up passively.

He didn’t like what he found. Not one bit.

Without thinking, Ratchet pulled his frame up through the entrance and into the den proper. Telegraphing his movements carefully he wrapping the jagged, agonised edges of the Ovaria’s EM field in his own and crawled forward until he was within touching distance. Self-preservation kicked in and he stopped warily, despite how his coding was screaming at him to _help, dammit_.

Even though Drift’s claws would be smaller than his own, the Ovaria would still be able to do the Medic significant damage if he panicked and lashed out.

The Medic almost disregarded that completely when he saw claw marks and trails of dried energon on Drift’s stomach and legs.

What had the kid _done_ to himself?!

“I’m sorry, kid. So very, _very_ sorry.” Ratchet knew he’d never forgive himself for allowing the Ovaria to go through this.

Was it his imagination, or had Drift angled himself as if expecting an attack? The idea was too bizarre to be true, but starvation-thinned armour still twitched abortively, as if trying to protect the protoform underneath. Underneath the Ovaria harmonics the EM field was a nightmare of despair and other things too complicated for Ratchet to sort out when most of his processor power was being hijacked by Incubator and Medic coding.

“I should have tried harder to get you stick around the Clinic and talked to you after Pax left.” Ratchet paused, but there was no response. He let his EM field fill with a kind of entreaty that would shock everyone who knew him “Will you let me help you?”

There was no biolighting to speak of showing on the tightly-curled form. Laying caused an immense energy drain on even a healthy Ovaria. With the condition Drift’s frame was in it was surprising he hadn’t offlined before Ratchet found him. Something deep within the Incubator’s psyche purred with approval; despite all the mistreatment he’d suffered the younger mech was _strong_.

Something fumbled forwards, brushing clumsily against Ratchet’s thigh. Drift patted around until he found the Medic’s arm and tugged with enough strength to maybe crumple a sheet of foil.

“ _Please_ ”


	11. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift thinks he's dreaming.  
> Then Ratchet screws up.

# Eleven: Drift

The Medic was speaking, but Drift couldn’t make himself understand the words. He lay curled around his eggs, waiting for blows that never came.

He could feel that EM field, though.

It was like a blanket, wrapping around him. Heavy without being suffocating, a wall to keep the world out that Drift basked in. Woven through that steady sense of comfort and strength there was sorrow, regret, _apology?_ Why would a mech like Ratchet apologise to a guttersnipe addict like himself?

Drift struggled to understand this strange new reality he found himself in. The Medic who’d helped him was Syngnathi like himself? He wanted to help him?

This was probably a fever dream, or some fantasy conjured by his spark as it finally guttered.

It wasn’t real. It _couldn’t_ be real.

If it wasn’t real, then this couldn’t hurt him any more than what he’d already endured.

His mind made up, the Ovaria forced one strutless arm out, feeling around for the pristine white armour he knew would be there. Hooking his fingers around it and pulling with all his strength, Drift got his vocaliser back online for one word.

“ _Please_.”

The source of the field shifted as Ratchet moved onto the stolen berth pad. It was probably disgusting with all the lubricant that had poured from his valve, but there was no complaint. Drift felt the vaguest flutter of concern about /other/ so close to his eggs, but it faded faster than it came. They were dead, they were safe from anything the world could do to them.

Drift’s lips parted in a silent moan of bliss as the Medic pressed his frame close along Drift’s back and blessed, delicious _warmth_ flooded into him, the area of contact expanding as the other Syngnath allowed the rest of his frame to join his horns and optics in showing his real nature.

The young Ovaria basked in the heat of the other’s systems, cradled in the EM field that felt like all the safety he’d never known. He thought he could almost offline happily now.

Go to meet his eggs and apologise for failing them.

As he muzzily contemplated what he’d say to the sparklings he’d failed, something pressed against his lips. The unexpected sensation broke the soporific spell the warmth had cast over him and sent the young Ovaria spiralling into terror.

Something at his faceplates, touching his mouth.

Unknown systems too close.

Unfamiliar plating against his own.

_No! Get AWAY!_


	12. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snuggles.  
> Then Ratchet screws up.  
> I think his mind is elsewhere.

# Twelve: Ratchet

“ _Please_.”

The quiet word was all Ratchet needed.

The Incubator slid forward onto the sticky, mangled old berth pad that was a sorry excuse for a nest and curled his frame around the Ovaria, providing the warmth the other so desperately needed. Having figured the dimensions of the small space, Ratchet allowed his frame to assume its proper shape and dimensions to better warm the younger mech.

He was rather shocked to discover that Drift was taller than he expected.

_Definitely_ large for an Ovaria.

If they stood up there probably wouldn’t be more than half a helms’ height difference between them!

How had Drift survived on the streets for so long without starving?! How had he managed to get enough energy and nutrients to sustain this frame? His energy requirements just to maintain his subspaced mass must have been phenomenal, let alone be –just barely- healthy enough to enter a Heat cycle.

The young Ovaria was smart, cunning and _very_ strong.

Ratchet forcibly shoved the Incubator coding which was purring in keen interest back into the deepest recesses of his processor.

This was _not_ the time!

The younger mech’s plating slowly lost it's deathly chill as heat from his own systems penetrated the exhausted Ovaria’s frame. While Drift came back up to a healthy temperature, Ratchet started trying to figure out how he was going to get Drift the medical care he so desperately needed.

The first thing would be to get some Energon into him. Then see if he could be coaxed back to the Clinic where he had some Acetic Acid to dissolve the eggs. It was an unpleasant necessity and one Ratchet hadn’t had to face before, but they needed to dispose of the clutch before it gave both of them away.

Drift couldn’t afford to lose the metals either, he felt painfully insubstantial where he lay daydreaming against Ratchet’s front. The Incubator wasn’t sure how the younger mech would respond to the offer of Ampulla; if the Ovaria would even know what he was offering or understood what it would mean if he accepted.

Not that it _would_ mean anything.

He was a Medic. It would come under his oath to offer all necessary aid to a mechanism in need.

Nothing more.

But that could come later.

Energon was the most important thing now.

He could feel Drift’s systems struggling as secondhand heat seeped into the hypothermic Ovaria.

Ratchet slid a hand into a subspace pocket, searching for the package of concentrated energon gels he kept there for those times when he simply didn’t have the time to waste on consuming a cube. Silently, he cursed the curved claws extending from his fingertips. He wasn’t used to manipulating objects with them and they made him clumsy.

The gels might be too much for the younger mech’s starved fuel tank, but once Ratchet got fuel into him he could get Drift to resume his Cybertronian form and they’d be able to make it to his Clinic in relative safety. He’d still be escorting an extremely weak mechanism though one of the worst parts of Rodion, but at least they wouldn’t be killed on sight.

The Incubator found his ‘emergency’ Energon gels and palmed several. Leaving the bag in subspace, Ratchet leaned up on one elbow and carefully held one of the gels to the Ovaria’s lips, hoping the scent of fuel would prompt Drift to take it without annoying questions.

The sharp kick of terror through the young mech’s field took Ratchet completely by surprise. Mentally kicking himself, he pinned Drift’s arm before he could do either of them damage and tried to calm him with field and voice, trying to reach the panicking Ovaria.

He should have expected something like this and gotten Drift’s attention first, not just shoved something in his face!

Where the _frag_ was his processor?!?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah just keep lying to yourself Ratchet. You do that. I'm sure it'll keep everything niiiice and uncomplicated.


	13. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Handfeeding a stroppy Drift.  
> Difficulty level: Intermediate

# Thirteen: Drift

Panic filled Drift and he tried to thrash; to force the other away.

All he did was twitch and flop weakly, trapped between his eggs and the other frame. A strong arm clamped down, pinning his free arm to his side before he could get his claws back to dig into foreign plating.

Someone was talking. A voice in his audio. Cultured accent. Soothing rumble and urgent tones. An EM field duelled with his own, attempting to stroke calm into his crazed, unthinking terror.

He ran out of energy before he ran out of fear, spark strobing erratically in its casing as his processor finally made sense of the litany being poured into his audio.

“Drift, kid. It’s me. It’s Ratchet. I’m a Medic. You’re safe. Drift; you’re _safe_. Come on, kid. Come back. It’s ok.”

Drift’s vents rattled unhealthily over a shaky intake as he recalled where he was and what was happening.

Oh he was such an _idiot_.

“You back?” That deep voice asked against his audio.

Drift nodded jerkily, trying to get his vents to co-operate as Medic’s EM field wrapped around Drift with rough sympathy and a touch of guilt. The warm arm relaxed its grip but remained around him, steadying him against the tremors that still wracked his frame where he lay curled around his eggs.

“Shoulda warned you before shoving something in your faceplates like that,” Ratchet explained. Drift wondered why the other Syngnath felt he should bother explaining his actions. “You need fuel. I’ve got some concentrated gels here that should tide you over until we can get you back to the clinic. I’ve got Acetic Acid and some of the more common Energon additives there.”

Wait, what?

Confusion filled the Ovaria, flooding his EM field before he could control himself.  

Go back to the Clinic?

Fuel? Cleanser? _Supplementary nutrition?!_

What was the Medic _on_ about? Drift’s eggs were dead and he should be too. Ratchet should save his fuel and additives for his patients, not waste them on a pile of scrap like Drift. He felt armour press against his back, as if the Medic was flaring his plating in anger. The arm around Drift moved and he wondered if _now_ he was going to be hit.

“I can feel that, kid.” The Incubator growled in his audio, “ _None_ of this is your fault. If I’d tried harder when Orion brought you in then none of this would have happened.

Drift felt something arm approach his faceplates, the strong scent of Energon, of _life_ , flooding his chemoreceptors moments before something softly touched his lipplates. His frame reacted before he could override it and he parted his lips, all but snatching the fuel from the Incubator’s claws.

“When you’re processing clearly I’ll explain _everything_ to you.” The Medic;s voice seemed to become clearer as the fuel hit Drift’s starved tanks and began the slow process of reviving him.

Another gel was offered and this time Drift tried to refuse, wanting to resume his trek towards oblivion.

“Don’t slagging start that or I’ll shut you down and tube your tanks.” Ratchet snapped, EM field relentless with the demand for obedience. “I’m a _Medic_. I won’t –can’t- leave you here to offline. Let me fix you up, listen to what I have to say and then you can decide what you want to do, ok?”

Oh. So it was coding, then.

For a while there it had almost felt to Drift like there was something else there, something warmer and kinder like when he’d awoken on the repair slab in Ratchet’s little clinic and the older Syngnathi had called him special.

It didn’t matter now.

He could let Ratchet do whatever he had to and then go do whatever had to be done to be with his eggs.

Resigning himself to the delay, Drift let the Medic feed him another gel.


	14. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The penny drops for Ratchet.  
> (But not the one you think.)

# Fourteen: Ratchet

It took the rest of the bag of Energon gels to give Drift enough power to resume his Cybertronian form for the trip back to Ratchet’s clinic. The effect of the compounds Drift had released before going underground was evident, but the strength of Ratchet’s EM field and the unconcealed threat it contained kept unwanted hands off their frames.

Drift’s eggs were carefully stowed in subspace. The Ovaria had already been giving them a strange, hungry look before Ratchet tucked them out of sight. Nothing could be done about the evidence left by the lubricant-soaked berth pad, and the Medic hoped nobody would discover it before he could get back here to dispose of it.

The chance of it being discovered was incredibly slim, but Ratchet hadn’t survived this long by leaving anything to chance.

Now the younger Syngnathi sat in the back room of the little Dead-End clinic, wrapped in all the thermal blankets Ratchet had on site while the Medic heated some Acetic Acid on a warming unit. There was a passiveness to the Ovaria that Ratchet didn’t like, it set off several warnings within his Medic coding that made him keep a very close optic on him.

“When I found you,” Ratchet began, “You said you didn’t know what to do.”

Drift nodded, optics fixed on the floor. He seemed to shrink back into his motley cocoon, EM field flickering with confusion and guilt.

In the half-light of the room he looked terrifyingly young.

A horrible suspicion started to form in Ratchet’s mind.

_No, it couldn’t be_.

“Drift, did you know what was happening to your frame?” Ratchet asked carefully.

The tiniest side-to-side movement of battered white finials answered him.

Something suspiciously wet gathered at the bottom of Drift’s yellow optical lenses.

The Medic was about to give Drift the illusion of privacy by visually checking how the acid solution was doing, but a flare of misery from the Ovaria’s field had him moving towards the younger mech instead. Crouching down so he was at eye level with the seated mech, Ratchet reached out and put two fingers under Drift’s chin, forcing him to make eye contact.

“Then the fact that you managed as well as you did is remarkable.” Ratchet filled his field with all the sincerity he could, internally cursing the situation. He was _not_ good at this kind of thing!

“It’s obvious that someone screwed up, kid. And that person wasn’t you.” The medic exerted light pressure against the young Ovaria’s jawline, as if trying to physically _press_ acceptance into him. “In fact, if I _ever_ find whoever it was they will regret ever being sparked.”

Drift shuttered his optics, EM field reaching out hesitantly. Ratchet allowed the contact, letting the outer edges of their fields mix so the younger mech could read him better. It felt far more pleasant than it should, prompting the Incubator to delete several unsuitable lines of thought before they distracted him from the situation at hand. He let Drift control the contact, letting the younger Syngnath what comfort he could from touching the field of one of his own.

“What I need to know is how much you know –or don’t know- about our kind. Whoever was supposed to teach you obviously _didn’t_ do their job,” Ratchet couldn’t keep all the accusation from his voice.

He met the Ovaria’s gaze as Drift unshuttered his yellow optics to look straight into Ratchet’s, seeming to look right through them and down into his spark. The Medic’s vents felt uncomfortably blocked as he sought the right way to word what he wanted to say. He was no good at this kind of slag!

“So if you feel like sticking around for a bit, I can fill in the gaps so you know what’s happening next time.”


	15. Drift

# Fifteen: Drift

He couldn’t believe that this was happening to him. Ratchet had gotten them back to the clinic through an unusually violent evening in the Dead End totally without mishap. Drift’s tank had more good-quality fuel in it from those gels than he could ever recall experiencing before. And he was _warm_.

That alone was enough to convince him that this had to be a dream, as he sat wrapped in old heating blankets and watched the Medic heat some mild cleanser.

When Ratchet started talking though, that burst the bubble of unreality surrounding Drift right quick.

None of the happy fantasies Syk created for him had ever contained awkward questions.

Having to admit his ignorance to the supremely competent Medic hurt more than Drift thought it would. A lifetime of practice kept his vents even and his vocaliser offline so they didn’t give him away, but his traitorous optics started to lubricate as if flushing grime from the delicate mechanisms. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, desperately hoping Ratchet hadn’t seen.

He had.

White pedes still smudged with grime from the underbelly of Rodion came into Drift’s line of sight, followed by the glass-plated chest of the Medic as Ratchet crouched down in front of him.

What is he doing?

If his vocaliser hadn’t been offline, Drift was sure he would have squeaked when two warm fingers tipped his chin up, forcing him to meet Ratchet’s optics. He looked serious. Fierce and determined.

“It’s obvious that _someone_ screwed up, kid. And that person _wasn’t_ you.”

Drift felt gentle pressure from the fingers under his jaw and he wanted so _desperately_ to believe what the medic was saying, wanted to lean his head on that smooth glass and let the older mech take care of him, but suspicion was so ingrained now that it was second nature.

“In fact, if I _ever_ find whoever it was; they will regret _ever_ being sparked.”

He couldn’t meet the blue optics that bored into his own with the focused intensity of a laser welder, but Ratchet was still touching him so he couldn’t move his head without being rude and risking a blow.

Not that the Medic had hit him yet.

Drift shuttered his optics to hide from the force of that gaze, carefully reaching out with his EM field instead. He’d always been good at reading others with it, but when the Medic wasn’t trying to hide it his field was so different to anything he’d ever encountered that he was almost lost when it came to trying to figure anything out.

He felt the older Syngnath welcome the contact, moving with him as Drift allowed the first few layers of his EM field to match and blend with the Medic’s. He could feel perfect sincerity; honest care and a powerful desire to _protect_ that frankly astonished him. He knew that Medics operated under different coding from the rest of the mechanism he knew, but how much difference did it make that they were both Syngnathi? The Ovaria probed carefully, feeling out the strength of those impulses at the level of their meshing.

This wasn’t like hardline connection or spark sharing, there was no exchange of data or thoughts or memories. But if you knew what you were doing you could get a good feel for a mechanism’s character from their EM field.

At least, Drift could.

It was how he’d survived this long.

The longer their fields stayed meshed, the more reluctant Drift was to let go. Ratchet’s field held a harmonic that soothed an anxiety the young Ovaria had lived with for so long he’d forgotten what it was like to be without it. It felt _right_ in a way that he simply didn’t have the words to express.

Maybe. . . maybe he _could_ trust the Medic? They were the same, after all.

“What I need to know is how much you know –or don’t know- about our kind. Whoever was _supposed_ to teach you obviously _didn’t_ do their job,”

Ratchet’s words startled Drift into unshuttering his optics to meet the earnest blue regard, still more than half-caught in his analysis of the Medic’s EM field. There was condemnation in the tone but with the outer layers of their fields woven together Drift could tell it wasn’t directed at him.

“So. . . If you feel like sticking around for a bit, I can fill in the gaps so you know what’s happening next time.”

There was no way he could have misread that. Not with how closely he was monitoring the social layers of ratchet’s EM field.

Drift’s vents stalled; _hard_.

He wasn’t sure what hit him hardest, the offer of shelter and support, or the implication that there would be a next time.

A next time with the burning frame and strange urges in his valve and the pressure in his belly and the cold and the _eggs his eggs he would fail them **again**_.

Terrified, Drift lurched towards the only source of comfort in the room, tipping forward off the chair to crash into the Medic. They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and blankets, Drift keening his horror and grief into the warm glass of Ratchet’s chest.


	16. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward floor cuddles.

# Sixteen: Ratchet

THAT was unexpected.

Ratchet just managed to keep his help from smacking into the floor as Drift lunged at him, knocking the Medic onto his aft. His arms came up instinctively, catching the blanket-wrapped Speedster and holding Drift awkwardly as he keened brokenly against him, faceplates pressed against the glass panelling over Ratchet’s Spark. He felt optical fluids drop onto his chest, trickling down until they ran into the blanket, prompting him to tighten his arms.

This wasn’t good.

The Ovaria’s EM field seemed to explode, flashing out of their careful communication and into a maelstrom in the flicker of an optic, almost overwhelming Ratchet.

_So strong!_

Anguish, guilt and self-hatred burned into the older Syngnathi like a hurricane of acid rain, dread and sorrow stalking the periphery of the younger mech’s torment with the implacable hunger of hunting cybercats.

Any reservations Ratchet held about sowing affection, about cuddling another adult on the floor of his Medbay crumbled before the onslaught. His engine rumbled, immediately dropping into the register used to soothe distraught sparklings. The Incubator’s vocaliser lurched uncomfortably, changing form just enough to allow him to produce the familiar/unfamiliar tonalities that _some_ part of Drift must surely remember, even if he’d only heard them during his days in the egg.

Ratchet filled his EM field with all the strength and support he could, providing an immovable bulwark for the storm to beat itself out against. Shelter and bedrock and sanctuary for the young Syngnathi shaking and sobbing in his arms.

He murmured nonsense against one of Drift’s helm finials; quietly in case someone was listening and decided to question his altered voice. With the insanity Drift had unknowingly unleashed in this section of the Dead End tonight, caution was more important than ever.

Eventually Drift calmed; either the outburst had run its course or he was simply too tired to continue emoting. Ratchet maintained his purr, continuing to hold the Ovaria despite their awkward position on the floor. The Medic didn’t know if he was actually helping at all, but Drift’s field held hints of genuine relief so he must be doing _something_ right.

Slagged if he knew what it was, though.

He was just trying to figure out how to ask what that had been all about when his comm went off, starling the Medic into tightening his grip on the other Syngnathi and momentarily flaring his armour in threat. He recognised the origin of the call, forcing his vocaliser back to Cybertronian production standards before bracing himself for some creative shading of the truth and opening the line. He spoke aloud for the benefit of the no-longer-relaxed Drift, who’d tensed up when Ratchet grabbed at him.

::What is it, Pax?::

::Ratchet, where are you?::

::At the Clinic in the Dead End, why?::

::Stay inside, don’t try to get home. It’s bedlam down there tonight and noone knows why.::

Ratchet knew why; he was currently cuddling the culprit.

Not that he would be telling the authorities.

::What are you doing there at this time of night, anyway?::

There it was. The million shanix question.

::Remember that leaker you brought me? The one who nearly fried his brain with circuit boosters?::

::Yes, what about him?::

::He came to find me, caught me on the way home and warned me that things down here looked like they were going to get bad out there. I came back here and dragged him along too. Going to see if I can talk him into giving me a hand with things until he can get sorted out with a job. He’s got a good spark.::

::I hope you can persuade him. Neither of you should leave the Clinic tonight in any case. I will contact the relevant people and inform them of your whereabouts and escort you home at daybreak.::

::Thank you. Take care out there, Orion. I don’t want to have to patch you up before heading home.::

Ratchet received a wordless sound of acknowledgement before Orion ended the communication.

Cycling a sigh through his vents, the Medic contemplated the blanket-swaddled form lying draped over his chassis, wondering what the Ovaria had made of that conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at work. Could you tell?  
> Still not editing this slag beyond eyeballing for spelling mistakes and egregious grammar errors. Maybe one day I'll have time to come back and give it a thorough rewrite? Who knows.


	17. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward floor snuggles from the other set of optics.

# Seventeen: Drift

When he had first calmed down enough to realise what he’d done, Drift had wanted to die of embarrassment.

Throwing himself at the Medic and knocking him on his aft then proceeding to cry all over him like a clingy sparkling really wasn’t the kind of impression he wanted to make.

Not that he was actually sure of the kind of impression he wanted to make on Ratchet. The mech already knew exactly what Drift was. He had apparently discovered all of it the first time they met.

Addict, leaker, whore.

_Syngnath_.

The last one was the most dangerous, and the secret they shared.

It was the offer of knowledge and something indefinable in that strong field that wrapped around Drift like it could shield him from the entire universe that kept him from trying to scramble away the very instant he realised that he was lying across the older mech, pinning him to the floor. Sound filtered back into his awareness next, a soothing purr rumbling up from the chassis below him that encouraged him to remain, just to be near it.

And that voice.

_That voice_.

It was something that just couldn’t be faked with clever frame mods or quickly tacked-on pieces of metal. The distinctive tonalities Drift hadn’t heard since he was a sparkling, pouring a litany of comfort into the hornlike flares that extended upwards from his helm.

So what if Ratchet sounded a little self-conscious? Drift couldn’t care less.

He was _safe_ here.

Content to remain on the floor, wrapped in the older Syngnathi's arms and listening to that voice mumble softly into his audio, Drift tried to ignore the panic that had only just receded. Did Ratchet go through this too? Is that why he knew how to help? Did he know a way to keep it from happening?

The young Ovaria wasn’t sure he could handle it again.

Better to find a quiet place and make sure his next attempt to offline himself was successful.

He wasn’t sure if the Medic realised that shoving the boosters into his brain was supposed to be his final act, a way out of the horror of being what he was, of being on the streets with only Syk and boosters to take away the agony of a frame cannibalising itself and grant him a few cycles of peace.

Ratchet suddenly tightened his grip and Drift tensed, wondering if he was about to be tossed across the room. The Medic was certainly strong enough to do it if he had a mind to.

The distinctive warble of an incoming communication request broadcast from a hidden speaker somewhere on the frame beneath him informed Drift of the reason for being squeezed. He settled in to listen to the conversation, since Ratchet obviously intended him to hear. The Ovaria was a little disappointed when he heard sounds of transformation from Ratchet’s throat before he accepted the call. His voice was nice, but the Syngnathi undertones made it something really special.

Pax? That was the name of the officer who’d found him?

At the time, Drift had hated him for unwittingly thwarting his attempt to end his misery.

Now, he supposed he should probably thank him.

_Oh_.

Ratchet wanted him to stay?

This incredibly accomplished mech who wore competence like it was custom-fitted armour; this compassionate being who’d sought him out simply because Drift had needed help when Drift himself hadn’t known it. Who _still_ wanted to help despite knowing what he was and what he’d done with his life?

Well, now he _definitely_ needed to find some way of thanking this ‘Pax’.

Maybe he could take Ratchet up on that offer, even though it hadn’t officially been made yet. It didn’t sound like Pax had known that Ratchet was broadcasting the call, after all.

The connection-cut bleep sounded and Drift found himself holding his vents.

_This was it_.

“I mean what I said to Pax, kid.” The Medic said, tapping the crown of Drift’s helm with a finger. “But I want to make it clear that it is an _offer_ , not an order. You’re free to walk out of here in the morning and go anywhere you want. Even if you accept you’re still free to leave at any time. I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to, ever. Understand?”

That. . . That was more consideration than Drift expected.

More than he felt he deserved.

What if he let them down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Considering Ratchet's comments during the Shadowplay arc of MTMTE, I headcanon that Drift jamming those circuit boosters into his cranial casing was a suicide attempt.
> 
> ~Only an Ovaria's first heat is capable of driving Cybertronians bonkers like has happened here.


	18. Ratchet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Secondary upper respiratory infections on top of Mystery Virus. MY VOICE IS AWOL. IF YOU SEE IT, PLEASE LET ME KNOW.  
> I don't even bloody know what is happening in this chapter.

# Eighteen: Ratchet

“First things first, though.” Ratchet pushed right on ahead, trying not to dwell on how very much he _did_ want the younger Syngnath to stay, “I need to give you some information that you should have been given centuries ago.”

Carefully, the Medic pushed himself up into a sitting position, keeping an arm around Drift so that he didn’t tip backwards and crack his helm on the floor. The Speedster made a surprisingly efficient lapwarmer, especially when considering both his frametype and how Ovaria tended to run cooler than was standard.

“Do you feel up to a hardline, Drift?” Ratchet sincerely hoped he was. They needed to get this over with as soon as possible. “That’ll be the quickest way to give you everything. You can go through it at your own pace and ask for any clarification that you need.”

The helm pressed against Ratchet’s thoracic armour nodded, long white finial rasping pleasantly against his chin. Shifting their frames into a slightly more comfortable position, Ratchet popped a hatch on his right forearm and unspooled one of his secondary data transfer cables. It would be a lot easier to do repairs on himself if the kid found something he didn’t like in the information Ratchet was about to send, panicked and ripped the cable out.

It would still hurt like slag, but that wasn’t really a concern right now.

“Ok, I’m going to need to access your clavicular ports.” Ratchet was NOT going to repeat the mistake he’d made in Drift’s nest. “You ok with that?”

“Mmmhmmmh” Drift appeared to be too exhausted  in the aftermath of his breakdown to do more than buzz a sound in the affirmative.

_Let’s see if he’s still this calm after this_.

“Alright,” Ratchet moved slowly and deliberately, moving the top of the heating-blanket cocoon Drift was enveloped in until his upper thoracic data interface array was uncovered.

Manually releasing the cover, the Medic located the correct port with the ease of long practice. He felt the Ovaria twitch beneath his fingers and paused, waiting for Drift to panic. After a few klicks of nothing, Ratchet relaxed fractionally.

“Here we go.” The Incubator announced.

Ratchet gave the younger mech a moment to brace himself before sliding his connector jack into the surprisingly well-kept information exchange port of the Ovaria’s clavicular array. There was a gentle feeling of connection before the sense of another being’s processors connected to his own registered in the Medic’s consciousness.

Initial identity establishment and systems sync took a fraction of the time it usually did with a strange mech, outer firewalls folding away as if they’d never been. Drift’s internal setup was somewhat different to a normal mech, but nowhere near as slagged as Ratchet had expected from what little he knew of the younger Syngnath’s history.

~ _This is what I know about our kind_ ~ Drift said hesitantly over the hardline, a group of carefully-concealed memory files popping up suddenly for Ratchet to peruse.

It was exactly as he had suspected. The Ovaria only knew that they were different in some way to normal Cybertronians, that the Cybertronian guise he wore on a day-to-day basis was nothing but a thin camouflage. Avoid hardlining and spark play as much as possible, discovery means interrogation and a slow, painful offlining.

That was it.

Ratchet wanted to find whoever had shoved the young mech out into the world so woefully underprepared and slag them one cubic _micrometer_ at a time. What they had done was cruel in the extreme.

~ _Thanks, kid_ ~ The medic swiftly tweaked the emergency files he carried in case of situations like these, nudging the entire package across the hardline to the Ovaria. ~ _This is the information you’re missing. It’s a lot to take in, but you should start with the files I’ve tagged. Those will explain what just happened to you and then you can choose how you wish us to deal with the situation we’ve gotten into._ ~

He could feel Drift’s consternation at the sheer _amount_ of information those files contained. Ratchet had been able to absorb it all over the years as he grew, receiving new information as he needed it. Drift didn’t have the luxury of time. He needed to know and he needed to know _now_ , for both of their sakes.

~ _Thank you_ ~ The pulse of gratitude and something like affection that accompanied Drift’s words surprised Ratchet, but he hid it well.

~ _I’m going to disconnect now, let you process that without me sitting on your shoulder_ ~ Ratchet got the distinct impression that the Ovaria would have been quite content to stay linked like this all night.

~ _Alright_ ~

Ratchet pulled his awareness back into his own processors, noting that the kid’s firewalls slid up behind him as he left. When he was firmly seated in his own frame again, the older Syngnath carefully unplugged his data transfer cable from Drift’s clavicular port and retracted it into his arm.

Cycling his ventilation system thoroughly, the Medic settled in to wait for Drift to discover what they needed to do with his eggs.


	19. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mmmm, hardlines and hard realisations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok shit so I've developed something like laryngitis now? FUCK.  
> NaNoWriMo has also started so quality of EVERYTHING is going downhill. WHEEEE!  
> Sorry this isn't going to hurt as much as I could make it do.

# Nineteen: Drift

The sheer amount of information he received from the older Syngnath stunned Drift. Was there really so much his creators hadn’t had time to tell him? It beggared belief. Still, when he unpacked the files they slotted neatly into empty archives in his memory banks that he’d always wondered about.

From his careful questioning of others on the streets -disguised as questions about the education system and higher learning from some of the washed-up academics who’d found their funding cut ot had their altmode deemed ‘disposable’ by the Functionalists- this type of empty archival system was  related to frametype and could only be filled with information relevant to your functioning. Since there weren’t exactly any special knowledge requirements for being a Speedster unless you got specific, specialised upgrades and needed to know how to run them; Drift had only been able to assume that these archives within his processor were reserved for information specific to his subspecies.

The packets he received from Ratchet confirmed it.

Drift really wished that the Medic had offered to stay connected by the hardline while he opened the tagged files. What he picked up from the Incubator’s EM field made him extremely nervous about it and he desperately wanted the unflappable solidity of the other mech’s hardline presence when he discovered whatever it was that made Ratchet so apprehensive. They were still on the floor, his blanket-warpped form enfolded warm and safe in the other’s arms, one thumb absently rubbing against his cheekplating in a comforting manner. It would be enough. In fact; it was far more than Drift had ever expected.

Taking a deep invent and bracing himself, Drift opened the first of the files Ratchet had tagged with an orange-and-yellow glyphshape that was beyond Drift’s ability to comprehend. He hoped that it was simply a Medic-shorthand version of ‘Read First’ that Ratchet had used out of habit, not remembering that Drift wouldn’t be able to read it.

The first file unfolded like an organic flower within Drift’s mindscape, offering up the first layers of information for the young Ovaria’s bemused perusal.

They were different from normal Cybertronians; that he already knew. This new knowledge added depth and complexity to that awareness. The physical differences went beyond the surface that he was aware of from studying his own Syngnathi form when he had the privacy to do so. They required more fuel and mineral additives; yes, yes he’d already figured that out. He didn’t need to know which ones and why right now, slaggit!

Impatient, Drift left the basework the first file had set up and moved on.

Surely _this_ one would explain what had happened to him!

Activating the next packet of data, Drift snuggled closer to the warm frame of the Medic and waited for the information to process.

Oh. Oh sweet Primus have mercy.

They came in two types.

Two types necessary to propagate their subspecies.

Small, fast Ovaira to produce the eggs and larger, stronger Incubators to support the eggs until they could survive on their own.

Like him. . . and like Ratchet.

Drift dove back into the files with renewed determination, eager to discover more.

If physical and environmental conditions were adequ- _blah blah blah, get on with it!_ \- Ovaira Syngnathi experienced a heat cycle of increased interface drive, marked by changed to the EM field and production of an aerosolised chemical compound that would trigger arousal in nearby Incubator Syngnathi. The heat invariably culminated with the Ovaria depositing their eggs within the incubation/maturation chamber of a receptive Incubator, if one was not available then the Ovaria did what Drift himself had been driven to do and find somewhere safe to lay the clutch.

The eggs were given life by sparkmerge, but only if the protospark matched with one of the Ovaria’s clutch in some indefinable way.

Drift’s mind reeled, his frame shook.

We went over the information glyph by glyph, inspecting them as best he could for alterations.

There weren't any.

It wasn’t his fault.

_It wasn’t his fault_.

Indescribable relief burst through the speedster, exploding out into his EM field before he could contain it. Ratchet had gone stiff when Drift started shaking but relaxed under him again when the Ovaria’s EM field expressed the emotional cause of his reaction to the other mech.

And the aerosol chemicals? Well, _that_ certainly explained how Ratchet had been able to find him, hidden in the black bowels of the Dead End as he had been.

_Did that mean Ratchet had wanted to. . . ?_

Drift quickly pulled his processor away from that line of thought and the complicated pathways it lead to, diving into the next-to-last file with single-minded intensity as the previous one continues to lay down more information in the empty storage space of his processor.

How to disguise the noticeable effects of a heat cycle for an Ovaria and how to dull the discomfort if one couldn’t interface with another Syngnath. Signs of broodiness in Incubators and how an Incubator could deal with it until they successfully courted an Ovaria for a clutch. After a heat, what to expect with a carrying Incubator ( _especially_ if the Incubator had been broody before the eggs were implanted), the kinds of supplements the Ovaria would need to restore their frame to full health after a heat and where to find them.

The next lines slammed into Drift with brutal, merciless frankness.

It couldn’t be true.

_Please, no!_

If an Ovaria – _A Syngnath like **him**_ \- found themselves in the same situation Drift was facing– _No Incubator. Eggs exposed, vulnerable, easily detected_.- then the easiest way to dispose of the unsuccessful clutch and restore his dangerously drained frame was to. . . to _ingest_ the. . . The best ways to . . . were. . .

_No._

_Nononononononono!_

He couldn’t continue.

There was no way Drift could face those hard, cold lines and apply them to himself.

It couldn’t be right, there had to be some sort of mistake!

There wasn’t though.

Drift felt the fragile scar tissue that had only just begun to form over his emotional wounds disintegrate under the weight of realising what he had to do.

He broke.


	20. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a doctor, not a shrink!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming back to this because the muse is shellshocked and needs an antidote to fluff.  
> PLEASE REMEMBER THAT THIS IS AN UNEDITED EXPLORATION OF A WHAT-IF SCENARIO.  
> Music: Throw 'Terror Adhaerens' by Kajiura Yuki on loop for this chapter ^.^

Ratchet’s nervousness increased steadily as he waited for the storm to break.

He’d felt the relief from the young Ovaria that obviously marked the point when he’d found out that the lifeless state of his clutch wasn’t his fault. It was reassuring to know that the kid trusted him and trusted the data enough to accept it. Pit knows, Ratchet wasn’t a processor specialist like Rung or Froid. If it had come to trying to talk the kid around and use fancy word tricks to get him to accept that fact, Ratchet would have been floundering within a few sentences.

He fixed frames, not minds!

It would be soon. It had to be soon. Drift was getting through the files a lot faster than he should have been.

 _Probably skimming through them, the impatient glitch_.

He felt it coming in the younger mech’s EM field, knew it was there when the well-wrapped frame in his arms stiffened with the sort of fervent, all-encompassing rejection that usually saw mecha start fights in the Intensive Care ward.

Within microseconds of that initial reaction, Drift’s frame had collapsed in upon itself and he curled into an implausibly small ball in Ratchet’s lap. The Ovaria shook and keened, mumbling unintelligibly in a gutter dialect Ratchet hadn’t bothered to download. He appeared oblivious to the Incubator’s attempts to comfort him, EM Field alternating between flat horror and jagged revulsion too fast for Ratchet to encompass and soothe.

The Incubator tried his best, but he knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep up that way. He was woefully out of practise when it came to dealing with others of his own kind, and the sheer strength of this untrained young Ovaria still stunned Ratchet when he stopped to think about it. If he was in full health, he would be phenomenal even without proper lessons in the finer points of EMF manipulation.

The sound of a fight breaking out at the end of the street had Ratchet tensing, armour clamping down to protect his protoform. They were in the back room of the Clinic and the main door was locked, but he still needed to drop the reinforced bars Orion Pax had insisted on installing in case he ever got stuck down here in a riot. There was no telling what the Dead End would be like tonight, not with the chemical effects of Drift’s first heat floating through the atmosphere. Mecha generally avoided damaging the clinic, since nobody knew when they’d need it or Ratchet’s goodwill to fix them up again. The blasted things were manual release though, so Ratchet needed to get up to barricade the door.

Getting up posed a bit of a problem right now.

Drift had stopped keening but he was still shaking, his EM field whipping at the Incubator with horror so strong that Ratchet felt his tanks roil and lurch towards his intakes with every distressed flare from the Ovaria.

“Drift. Drift; listen to me.” Ratchet spoke urgently to the ball of miserable Ovaria curled tightly on his lap, not once ceasing his efforts with his field. “There’s a fight at the end of the street and with what Pax said earlier it will probably get pretty nasty down here. The door is strong enough to keep out looters, but I need to get up and bar the door. Pax insisted I get a manual barricade on it so they couldn’t be hacked. Are you going to be OK if I do that?”

Drift’s answer came in the form of a twitch that could have been a nod and the blanket-wrapped mech rolled himself sideways off Ratchet, pitching over onto the floor with a muffled thud and lying there apathetically.

“Drift?”

Ratchet reached out and put a hand on the mound of blankets, trying to get a good reading of the young Ovaria’s systems through the dampening layers of metalthread-reinforced blankets that made up his cocoon.

“Go make it safe. I promise I won’t move until you come back.” The young Ovaria’s voice was muffled, but his words and the honesty behind them were clear.

“I’ll be quick.” Ratchet promised, cursing his clumsy glossa as he ran from the room.


	21. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift faces the options available to him and makes his decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok now that the weirdness of Amuplla has shown up in Invalid Beings I can get on with random slabs of this fic when the Muse throws a tantrum elsewhere.

# Twenty-One: Drift

Drift listened to the Medic’s pedesteps as the other Syngnath ran to secure the Clinic. A rather interesting stream of curses directed at the Enforcer ‘Pax’ floated to his audios, followed by the thumps and clangs of the reinforced bars coming down over the inside of the door, sealing them in.

_Trapped!_

Well-honed survival protocols flared up in brief panic, until the rational part of his processors forcibly reminded them that given the situation outside and his current physical state, this was the safest place to be.

_Besides, he’s had plenty of chances to hurt me and he hasn’t._

**_Not yet._ **

Drift wasn’t sure he could go through with this. To do what he needed to do in order to keep himself and Ratchet safe from discovery. There had been those scary spikes of hunger when he’d cleaned the eggs, something buried deep in his coding reacting to what he hadn’t known.

Then it had happened _again_ when Ratchet had convinced him to leave the familiar safety of his hideaway in the bowels of Rodion. His frame had screamed at him, it had been _hard_ to put his eggs into subspace and not . . . do something else. Something else he didn’t want to think about.

Even though it wasn’t his fault, Drift had still failed them. If he . . . did _that_. . . then the metals and elements drawn from his frame to create them would be absorbed back into his frame again. They would return the strength they didn’t need. His beautiful, perfect eggs would be with Drift for as long as those atoms remained part of his frame.

Did he deserve that?

While he struggled with the question the sound of pedesteps got louder and then stopped. After a few moments of silence Drift pushed himself upright and turned to see why Ratchet had stopped. The older mech – _Incubator_ \- was standing in the doorway, looking at Drift with the saddest expression he’d ever seen on his faceplates.

Realising he’d been caught; Ratchet gave an awkward half-shrug which had the corner of Drift’s mouthplates twitching up. He watched the Medic move to the warming plate which had been abandoned in favour of . . . well, in favour of Drift freaking out, then some cuddling (which had been rather nice and he wanted to do it again, although under better circumstances), then giving Drift the information he now realised his long-dead creators would have given him had they remained online long enough to do so.

Which meant that now they had to take care of his clutch to reduce the chances of the normal Cybertronians around them discovering the pair of Syngnathi in their midst.

Drift’s armour drew in defensively at the thought. Discovery would be unspeakably bad. There wasn’t just his life at stake any more, there was Ratchet. The Medic had placed his life on the line by searching Drift out tonight. Ratchet had saved his life, little as Drift had wanted him to. The least he could to try to repay the Incubator would be to lessen the chance of them being discovered.

Even . . . If it meant . . . Drift had to . . .

Choosing to act rather than think, Drift got shakily to his pedes and wobbled over to join Ratchet at the workbench. The scent of warmed Ascetic Acid was dizzyingly sharp through his chemoreceptors. Ratchet wrapped a strong arm around him and dragged the chair over with a pede, setting Drift down before he fell.

“Are you ready for this, kid?” The older mech looked more serious than Drift had ever seen him. “It’s alright if you’re not.”

Uncomfortable, Drift tried to look away but Ratchet caught his chin and forced him to meet his optics. That wonderful EM Field was back, empathy and unquestioning support wrapping around him.

“Check those files again, there are other ways to deal with this situation and it is your right to choose what to do now.” Ratchet waved his free hand at the cube of warmed acid. “We can use this stuff to scrub the worst of the sewer slime off and go recharge if you’d prefer. There is more than one option available and the choice is ultimately yours. I will help you, no matter what choice you make.”

Doing as instructed, Drift turned his attention inward and searched through the special partitioned section of his processer that was finally blissfully full of information for the first time in his functioning. It felt right in a way he couldn’t describe to have this specific kind of knowledge residing in this specific part of his cortex. Even when high on boosters and Syk the nagging awareness of the emptiness of this part of him had never gone away.

Now it had.

_Ok, found the ‘Ovaria’ Heat files. Slag I wish I’d known all this earlier!_

He could consume the eggs himself, an option that was becoming disturbingly less horrifying as Drift’s much-abused frame settled into a post-laying state and demanded _replenishment._

_So there_ is _something about physically handling the eggs that does weird stuff to my coding that makes it easier on me to dispose of them like this? No wonder Cybertronians hate us so much._

The next option was variations on dissolving the eggs and pouring them down a disposal unit. Keeping them in subspace was an invitation to discovery, especially in a place as rife with thieves as Rodion.

_But. . . That seems like an insult, somehow. Even though they were never alive, I can’t just throw them away like that_. . .  _Like I was._

The final option hit Drift like a fully-charged shockstick to the side of the helm. His vents seized briefly then lurched back into motion double-time. His optics seized on Ratchet, the Medic absolutely unwavering in the fact of the shock and disbelief running rampant through Drift’s EM Field. The young mech couldn’t control it; this was all a bit too much to be believable. _Surely_ the crawling ache of Syk comedown would interrupt this any moment now.

Ratchet _couldn’t_ actually be suggesting he would help Drift that way, was he?

_If he is. . . Ratchet deserves them more than I do. I’ll just fail again._

“I-if I can’t. . . you know.” Drift’s vocaliser crackled and he reset it, the sound unnaturally loud over the noises from outside. “If I can’t do it myself, y-you would. . . Help me? L-like in those files?”

He desperately wanted to beg the Incubator to make the decision for him, but Drift didn’t want to burden the older mech any more than he already had. Ratchet had already done so much, was risking _so much_ for him that Drift couldn’t bring himself to knowingly add to his load.

A brief glow flashed through Ratchet’s optics but nothing showed in his Field. It remained calm and steady, supporting Drift without asking anything in return. The Medic took Drift by the shoulders, adjusting the blankets that had started to slip, baring Drift’s battered shoulder armour.

“I said I would help you no matter what choice you made, and I mean it.” Ratchet said, vocalisation as intense as the feeling of resolve coming through his EM Field.

He couldn’t quite seem to meet Drift’s optics, but the Ovaria had no doubts that he was telling the truth. Ratchet took a deep invent, the cool cleanser-scented air of the Clinic passing over the sensitive flares of Drift’s helm.

“If your choice is for me to ingest the mixture and then return the materials to you as Ampulla,” the Incubator continued, “I will do it.”


	22. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet realises that this will be harder than he originally thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short but hey I'm busy right now.  
> We're getting into some of the major differences in how Incubators and Ovaria operate.  
> This is gonna be FUN, guys!

# Twenty-Two: Ratchet

“If your choice is for me to ingest the mixture and then return the materials to you as Ampulla,” the Ratchet said firmly, “I will do it.”

The Medic fought denta and claw to keep his EM Field and frame language under control, not giving the young Ovaria any hint of the war his Spark and processors were waging against eachother.

He wanted to court Drift properly, but the young mech was currently his patient and at the moment he also stood in _loco parentis_ , as a substitute Clan Elder and had done from the instant Orion Pax had brought the nearly-dead young Speedster into his clinic. Ratchet couldn’t _wouldn’t_ abuse the trust those positions entailed

He would never be able to live with himself if he knowingly took advantage of Drift’s ignorance.

The Ovaria was so strong, so resourceful and had already proven himself as a survivor. He roused all Ratchet’s rather formidable protective instincts as both an Incubator and a Medic. There was also a horrible suspicion in the back of Ratchet’s processor that he would be physically attracted to this Ovaria even without the last lingering traces of the younger Syngnath’s heat-scent in the air.

_Which of the Thirteen did I frag off to deserve this?!_

“Thank you.” Drift said quietly. His golden optics were fixed on Ratchet’s face but the Medic gamely avoided meeting his gaze. “I want to t-try first. You’ve already done so much for me. I don’t want to burden you with this too if I don’t have to.”

“You’re not a burden.” Ratchet responded automatically, wrapping his Field around the younger mech to reinforce what he said.

Drift just gave him a sad smile, as if he somehow knew better than a mech several centuries his senior. When Drift twitched away Ratchet quickly let go of the younger mech’s shoulders, checking the temperature of the Acetic Acid which was still bubbling away on the warming plate. In his peripheral vision Ratchet saw the Ovaria leaned more of his weight against the workbench for support and rustle about under his insulating layer of blankets.

An uneasy combination of the odour of sewer and the unmistakable smell of eggs and nesting joined the sharp acrid tang of the hot acid in the air of the workroom, making Ratchet’s tanks roll uneasily. Despite his confident words and the certainty Ratchet pushed into his EM Field where the Ovaria could feel it, he wasn’t entirely certain he could go through with this.

Incubators were supposed to nurture and protect their young, _especially_ when they were still in their shells. Every time he allowed himself to linger on what Drift had asked of him Ratchet’s every instinct recoiled. The only saving grace was the small, insistent nudges of defend/protect/support that countered the shriek of his core code whenever his EM Field encountered the ragged, exhausted one of the Ovaria.

_I guess now I’ll get to see how different Ovaria coding_ really _is. He seemed pretty attached to those eggs before._

Drift placed the rag-wrapped parcel on the workbench with shaking hands, unwrapping so gently the soft polishing cloths Ratchet had donated for the task back in the bowels of Rodion didn’t make even whisper of noise for his audials to pick up. As the scent of eggs and nesting intensified Ratchet had to focus on keeping his vents steady and selectively shut down certain portions of his chemosensory system. His optics were transfixed by the first gleam of protomass-silver as Drift made it to the centre of the little parcel of failed life.

All eight eggs of Drift’s clutch were dark, tough membranous outsides a dull maroon against the polishing cloths. Despite already knowing and being able to clearly see that none of them contained life, the Incubator couldn’t stop the little questioning warble that escaped his vocaliser. Something died within him at the lack of response and Drift flinched at the sound, hanging his head and running his fingertips slowly over the eggs.

“Sorry Drift.” Ratchet said, reaching out to place his hand over the Speedsters’. “I’m coded differently to you. It changes how I see and do things sometimes. It’s . . . hard to fight, even when I know better.”

“I understand.” The Ovaria looked up at Ratchet, golden optics filled with infinite sadness as his EM Field pulsed understanding. “Let’s . . . let’s do this.”

Curling his fingers about Drift’s, Ratchet held the Ovaria’s optics and nodded.


	23. Drift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: 'Breathe Me' by Sia, 'I'm Not Dead' by Pink

# Twenty-Three: Drift

Drift’s Spark skipped in its chamber when Ratchet took his hand.

It felt nice.

It felt like they were a team, like someone had his back again.

Taking a steadying invent, Drift reached out with his free hand to pick up one of his eggs. It was cold and tough, seeming almost shrunken compared to the images in his memory banks. The egg had no life of its own and had long since lost the warmth of his frame. Inert and lifeless. It was only important now as something that could give him away.

Fighting the urge to simply bring it to his mouthplates, Drift gently slid the first egg into the cube steaming solvent with a mournful little whistle of farewell.

Ratchet flinched, field momentarily retreating as his plating clamped down before returning to press against Drift’s with an apology.

“Sorry kid.” The Incubator’s armour shuddered. “It’s… hard for me.”

“It’s not as hard for me as I thought it would be.” Drift said, turning a bit so he could watch Ratchet’s expression. He didn’t seem repulsed, which was reassuring. “Those files you gave me said something about a difference but I didn’t realise just how big it would be. Y-you don’t have to watch, I think I can do this bit ok.”

The acetic acid was doing its work quickly. Drift could see thin swirls of silver on the surface of the cube, the fluid taking on a weird maroon tinge as it broke down the membrane and gel of his egg.

“I said I’d help.” Ratchet said stubbornly, glaring at Drift. “That means for this too.”

“Not if it hurts you.” Drift said, surprising himself with unexpected stubbornness.

Ratchet cycled his optics a few times; surprise and something like admiration evident in his field. After a few moments the corner of his mouthplates turned up in a smile.

“Have it your way.” The words were sharp but the way the Incubator said them almost sounded like he was saying thank-you.

It took two more eggs for Ratchet to reach his limit. The solvent was a slowly deepening red shot through with the silver glitter of protomass, bubbling and hitting the Ovaria’s olfactory sensors with something sharp that smelled far tastier than it should.

When Drift reached for the fourth egg –halfway point- Ratchet made a strangled noise and turned his helm, looking away from Drift and what he was doing. The Incubator pulled his Field in so fast Drift felt like a physical support had been pulled out from underneath him. When he tried to reach out with his own he met a tight barrier that felt like a single sheet of plexiglass holding back a hurricane.

“Ratchet?” Drift felt tension winding through him as his frame readied itself in case this was the moment where the beatings began.

“’M sorry.” Ratchet’s voice was rough and low, his shoulders slumped. “Can’t watch anymore.”

Drift cycled his optics blankly at the back of Ratchet’s helm, waiting for his processor to catch up with the situation. Without the solid presence of Ratchet’s EMF extended against his own the Ovaria subconsciously expected to be hit.

When everything finally clicked into place Drift wanted to kick himself for taking so long to figure it out. Slag but he needed to recharge!

“I’ll tell you when i-it’s safe to look.” Drift said, flinching when Ratchet’s plating rippled. “Thank you. For, you know…”

He trailed off, frustrated with himself for not being able to find the right words.

“I understand, kid.” Ratchet squeezed his hand gently, keeping his gaze fixed on the shelf-lined wall. “Thanks.”

Drift squeezed back and looked down at the five remaining eggs.

Something rose up within him, something born of core coding and the new knowledge gifted to him by Ratchet.

_Don’t want to drag this out._

_Better get on with it._


	24. Ratchet

# Twenty-Four: Ratchet

Ratchet offlined the rest of his chemoreceptors as he felt Drift’s frame move. The audios quickly followed as the distinctive squeak-grind sound of hands that had seen too much rough usage and too little maintenance picking something up seemed to echo through the small room.

This was so much harder than he thought it would be.

_How do they do this every cycle when they’re away from kin?_

Guilt squirmed in his spark as the Incubator kept his field tight and unreadable. Drift needed his support but he couldn’t risk letting the Ovaria feel the emotional chaos currently tearing though him. The youngster would blame himself for Ratchet’s weakness and he honestly wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull him out of another downward spiral tonight without doing something that could compromise them both.

With his other senses compromised Ratchet kept his optics trained on the shelves lining the wall, studying the assorted junk stored there for tell-tale tremors that would show someone trying to break down the door.

Drift’s field was firm and determined against his, even if the young Ovaria wasn’t probing anymore. From the minute tremors transmitted through their joined hands Ratchet could tell that the kid was moving, doing what Ratchet couldn’t.

With input reduced, the Incubator found more processing threads than he cared to spare winding themselves around what Drift was doing, just out of his line of sight.

Guilt filled Ratchet.

This shouldn’t have happened. This shouldn’t have been necessary. If he’d been better, more assertive when Pax brought Drift in. He should have gone looking sooner. Drift wouldn’t have to do this, the eggs wouldn’t have had to be exposed.

Ratchet knew right down to his spark that he would have had no problems at all with accepting a non-viable clutch, especially if it meant preventing _this_.

It didn’t matter that they were coded so differently when it came to eggs. Drift shouldn’t need to do this. The Ovaira had already experienced too much pain in his short life. Ratchet could have kept him from this one and hadn’t.

To Ratchet’s own coding, as soon as an egg saw air it was a solid entity. Intellectually, he knew that to Drift unless one contained a spark of life it was much easier to overcome his inhibitions and… _recycle_ them.

Ratchet was so lost in recriminations that he didn’t notice Drift shaking his hand, trying to get his attention. It was only when the Ovaria used his free hand to cup Ratchet’s face and physically pull his helm around that Ratchet realised what had been going on.

_Some sentry I am._

Drift’s mouthplates were moving and Ratchet spent a stupid moment wondering why the younger mech hadn’t onlined his vocaliser before realising it was his own audials that were off. He brought them back on line Justin time to catch the last glyph of Drift’s sentence, which wasn’t much help.

_Too tired_.

“Sorry kid, I had to switch my audials off.” Ratchet admitted, embarrassment filling him. “I couldn’t…”

He let the sentence trail off, not able to find a way of wording what he wanted to say without being offensive.

“It’s ok.” Drift said, understanding plain on his face and in his field. “I just said that… I tried but my tank is too full. It was a bit shrunk to begin with and after that stuff earlier I can’t, well, fit the rest in.”

Since he’d given Drift the files earlier they both knew that if they left the dissolved concoction to cool down again it would solidify, but leaving it on the heating pad to keep it liquid was an open invitation to discovery.

Ratchet had given his word. They weren’t going to pour the remains of Drift’s clutch into the disposal to mix with the other assorted waste of the Clinic.

Silently, the Incubator held his hand out for the cube.

It was still two-thirds full.

His tanks clenched and roiled in protest, in his processor several different layers of coding fought savagely for dominance.

Ratchet accepted the support of Drift’s field and hand, lifted the cube to his lipplates and began to drink.


	25. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Best time to take a nap with your new crush is when the world is going to hell in a handbasket outside.

# Twenty-Five: Drift

Drift could feel the struggle in Ratchet’s Field as he took the cube and began to mechanically swallow the contents. He held the medic’s free hand in both his own, leaning against the countertop for balance and trying to project apology and admiration. It was obvious how hard it was for Ratchet to do this. His vents were cycling too fast and creases formed on either side of his prominent nose, deepening with every swallow. His Field control slipped and Drift caught a wave of pure revulsion and nausea before it whipped away again.

The instant Ratchet finished the last of the liquid the cube slipped from his grasp to hit the floor and dissolve in quick flash of cool plasma. The hand in his started to shake and Drift obeyed the promptings of his spark and code to wrap arms and Field around the Incubator, wordlessly holding Ratchet as the medic fought the urge to purge his tanks.

_I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

Drift expected to be shoved away at any moment. He wished he could have been stronger, or that Ratchet hadn’t found him, just left him to offline and grey out with his eggs so he wouldn’t have had to do this. He filled his field with apology, thanks and as much comfort as he could offer and hoped it would be enough.

When Ratchet raised his arms Drift loosened his grip, bracing himself for a shove. It didn’t happen. Instead Ratchet wrapped his arms carefully around Drift and his layers of blankets. Drift stayed frozen in place, not knowing what to expect. Was this more cuddling? Cautiously he tightened his arms around Ratchet and felt the Incubator cycle his vents in a long sigh. He almost couldn’t believe it when the distress started draining out of Ratchet’s Field and his shaking eased to light tremors. Something shifted in Drift’s chest and through the cloth covering his audial flares he thought he heard a muffled humming coming from his own chassis.

Drift didn’t want to let go when Ratchet finally stopped trembling. Despite the circumstances he hadn’t felt this safe in _centuries_. Maybe if he distracted Ratchet?

“It takes a while to make th-the Ampulla, right?” Drift asked, startled to find that his voice had changed while the rest of his frame remained Cybertronian. He didn’t remember _that!_

“It can,” Ratchet said quietly against the top of Drift’s helm, “But my reserves are in pretty good shape. This isn’t the safest place for it, though. Will you be alright?”

The concern and indecision flowing from the older mech made Drift smile under his hood of thermal blanket. With the extra energy from those gels it was easy for Drift to tell that he was torn between the need to help Drift _right now_ and the need for both of them to stay hidden. To Drift it was a no-brainer; keeping Ratchet from being discovered was top priority.

“I’ll be fine.” He pushed reassurance at Ratchet when he felt the medic waver. “Should probably try to recharge, if you think it’s safe enough in here.”

They were silent for a moment, listening to the sounds from outside. Drift felt ice slide down his spinal struts at the familiar noises piercing the night. No wonder Pax told them to stay inside. A heavy frame crashed against the outside of the clinic and Drift tensed, ready to flee. The metal was stronger than it looked and didn’t budge, the owner of the frame shrieking something before they were forcibly silenced.

“ _Primus below_.” Ratchet breathed, pulling Drift closer to his frame.

Wordlessly the Incubator let go of Drift and shut off the lighting. Drift set his optics to infrared and watched Ratchet move uncertainly for a moment before doing the same. His next words were barely a whisper.

“We should be safe enough if we don’t draw attention. The building is stronger than it looks and I don’t keep anything useful enough to be stolen here.”

Drift nodded understanding and let himself be guided into the most defensible corner of the room. He settled down on the floor and curled himself into as small a ball as possible while Ratchet pulled the last few worn old thermal blankets from the hidden cupboard he’d gotten the ones Drift was wrapped in. The Ovaria couldn’t help purring with satisfaction when Ratchet wrapped one of the blankets around his own frame and became much harder to pick up with infrared vision.

_Good. Hide and stay safe._

It was surprising when Ratchet returned to sit propped against the wall, firmly between Drift and the door, even more so when he tried to put a folded-up blanket beneath Drift’s helm to keep it off the floor. Drift shook his helm, letting amusement fill his Field and pushed the blanket back at Ratchet.

“I’m fine. You’ll need to keep your pedes covered.” He whispered, pointing at the medic’s pedes which were clearly visible to infrared sight and looked extremely out of place lying apparently disembodied on the floor.

Something warm rose in Drift’s spark as he watched Ratchet quietly slap his own forehelm with his palm and use the blanket to cover his pedes. The sounds from outside dimmed and Drift cautiously extended his Field towards Ratchet. The Incubator reached back, projecting confidence and calm. A current of cool air brushed across Drift’s faceplates and he felt Ratchet adjust the blankets wrapped around him to cover his horns properly.

Too tired to fight his frame’s demand for rest Drift wriggled a little closer to the Incubator and his wonderful EMF and let himself slip into recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That chapter only exists because i-am-menial threw coffee at this fic. Go say thanks to them.


	26. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wakey-wakey time to panic!

# Twenty-Six: Ratchet

He hadn’t expected to recharge well or deeply but Ratchet had done both. The first thing he became aware of the next morning was his private commline pinging him with an ‘urgent’ pattern. The second was a Syngnathi Field so deeply enmeshed with his own he was confused and disoriented until his memory cache loaded the events of the previous day.

_I’m not home; I’m on Cybertron, in the Den with the kid. His pheromones sent the entire population of the Dead End into a frenzy of rape and murder last night._

For some reason Ratchet had expected to come online still upright, back against the wall and facing the door. Instead he was lying on his side, bundled in blankets. His back was still pressed to the cool metal of the clinic wall but his lap front were warm, the low vibration of an engine telling him that the warm thing was Drift. Ratchet has his head resting on the dip of the younger mech’s waist so he could see the door, one arm wrapped protectively over Drift’s torso. As for Drift, the Ovaria had his helm pillowed on one of Ratchet’s legs and the fingers of one hand entwined with Ratchet’s in a grip the medic wouldn’t be able to escape from without damaging himself.

The commlink ping increased a few more notches and Ratchet groaned internally, checking the sender ID before answering.

 _Pax_.

He opened the commlink and spoke first.

::What’s the situation?::

::Ratchet! Where are you? Are you alright?::

The normally calm cop sounded unusually tense.

::I’m still at the Den, with the kid who warned me about the riots last night. What’s wrong, Pax?::

::I want you two to stay put. There’s something weird going on. The council’s got mechs everywhere, I think they’re looking for something but they’re not saying what.::

Ratchet’s spark froze in his chest.

_Oh no. No no no!_

His processor raced, trying to figure out if they’d left any trace, if there was any way they could be traced from Drift’s abandoned nest back here, to his not-entirely-legal clinic. It would be so easy for them to disappear right now. Two more casualties of the riots and nobody to question it but Orion Pax.

_And after a little mnemosurgery not even he’ll remember. Frag!_

::We’ll stay put. Keep me posted on any developments.::

::Understood. Orion out.::

“Ratchet? What was that?” Drift’s voice was thick, the lull of recharge rapidly retreating from his Field as he responded to the icy terror pouring through Ratchet.

“Pax. There are hunters crawling all over the Dead End. He said to stay put while they search.”

“Hunters…” Drift hissed through his denta, shifting so he could sit up.

Ratchet let him do so, missing the warmth and weight of his frame the instant he lost it and hiding it by pushing himself back upright.

“Does Pax know?” Drift’s subglyphs made it clear what he was asking.

_Does Pax know about me? I’m so sorry kid._

“No.” Ratchet scrubbed at his faceplates, processor whirling.

He was a medic; he just didn’thave the programming to calculate their odds of discovery. Everything in him was screaming at him to run, take Drift and head for deep space and hope the council mecha didn’t overtake them. But fleeing would be admitting that he had a reason to run, an open invitation to pursuit.

“So what now?” Drift asked.

The younger mech was looking to Ratchet for answers and he had to give them. He had to come up with a plan for their survival, was responsible for not only their own safety but the safety of every other Syngnath they had contact with.

 _I have to be ready to send the alert. I can’t let anyone else come to harm because of my mistakes_.

“We get cleaned up, have some fuel and wait.” Ratchet said, trying to keep the fatalism he felt out of his Field. From Drift’s reaction he suspected he hadn’t done a very good job. “That’s about all we _can_ do right now.”

The Ovaria seemed to accept that, possibly it lined up with his own experiences growing up on the streets. Ratchet shed his blankets and stood up first, helping Drift to his pedes and automatically scanning the speedster. Drift twitched and made a face as the deeper scans probed him but he seemed to be doing much better than he had the previous evening. Energy levels low and he was probably still tired despite the fuel and recharge.

 _Laying does that to them_.

Medical grade with additives was the best prescription for Drift but Ratchet didn’t have any on him, all he had was a second pack of emergency ration gels and the common additives in the clinic cupboards. Things so common it wasn’t worth the effort of breaking into the clinic to steal them. He did what he could with what he had, liquefying some of the emergency rations over the heating plate and mixing them with additive he knew Drift’s systems would need while they cleaned up as best they could with solvent and rags.

They wouldn’t be able to get very clean but that wasn’t the point. He could always tell Pax that Drift had taken him back to the Den via an underground route. Looking like they’d spent a considerable time lying in the grime of Cybertron’s dark levels would be as good telling the Council’s hunters that there was something here to investigate.

 _Primus below I hope they aren’t already suspicious_.

“Ratchet, you know that hiding spot I showed you?” Drift asked as he perched on the edge of the circuit slab, sipping his energon and watching Ratchet scrub at the grime embedded in his side.

The speedster hadn’t _shown_ Ratchet anything, but the meaning was clear.

_He’s been integrating those files._

“Yeah. Good spot, it saved out afts.” Ratchet glanced up to see Drift’s optics fixed on him with an uncomfortably intent gaze. “What about it?”

“You think it would be ok for me to go back? There are a few things I hid there that I want to keep, you know, like mementos.”

_Translation: is it safe to go back and dispose of the evidence that he laid his eggs there._

“Not right now. That group of mecha you said were following me might still be sniffing around. Better give it a bit to be safe.” Ratchet said and on the periphery of his vision he saw white finials dip in a nod of understanding.

“Ok. They’re not important to anyone but me and they’re pretty well-hidden anyway. They’ll keep.”

To his great surprise Drift smiled and his Field flowed out to press reassurance and confidence into Ratchet and he realised that he’d been unconsciously projecting his own tension and fear. Now that he was paying attention the Incubator realised his Field was ragged with stress.

The sound of multiple sets of pedesteps approaching down the street drove whatever Ratchet had been about to say from his processor.


	27. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A narrow escape.  
> Narrower and not actually as much of an escape as they think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this because 1) I have a bunch of coffee-bribed stuff ready to be edited and thrown on AO3 but I'm trying to resist the urge to throw everything on at once 2) I think I'm catching partner's germs and don't wanna edit this tired.  
> So this chapter may make less sense than usual

# Twenty-Seven: Drift

Drift tensed, drawing his Field in with a _snap_ as he picked up pedesteps outside.

They were almost at the door to Ratchet’s clinic.

_Why didn’t I hear them sooner? I’m usually better than this!_

Despite his delay in noticing them Drift could still tell that there were at least three mechanisms outside, two sets of heavy pedefalls that sounded like convoy-class or someone of equivalent weight –probably military- and one very light set that could be a minibot or a femme, definitely civilian either way.

Ratchet’s optics cycled rapidly and he relaxed, suddenly speaking aloud.

“Alright Pax I’ll let you in.”

_Oh, they must have commed him_.

The medic’s voice and Field were suddenly one-hundred percent Cybertronian and Drift took that as a cue to check his own disguise. He didn’t think it would have slipped despite the strangeness of where he’d recharged but paranoia was survival for their kind. He slipped off the medberth and tried to follow Ratchet, intending to help unbar the door but Ratchet waved him back.

“I’ve got this, kid.” The Incubator said. “Pax sounded a bit jumpy; he’d probably react badly to an unfamiliar face. I don’t want him putting _more_ holes in you that I’d have to fix.”

Drift winced at the unsubtle reminder of how they’d met. He resented it, even though it sounded like Ratchet hadn’t meant it in a cruel way. It hurt that Ratchet would refer to one of the lowest points in Drift’s life in such an offhand way. As if helping Drift had been an inconvenience for him. Nothing made it out into his Field, for which Drift was glad.

The trio of mechs outside the door must have seen something of the look on his face because all three of them eyed him suspiciously when Ratchet pushed it open, blocking the door with his frame and giving each of them a once-over. Drift recognised the enforcer as the one who’d dragged his overdosing frame to Ratchet that first time and the warrior beside him… the most familiar part of that mech’s frame would be the heavily modded spike he loved shoving down buymech throats. It was the third one, the small one, which Drift had never seen before. An unknown quantity that made him wary. ~~~~

“Ratchet, are you alright?” The huge red-and-blue Enforcer asked, looking at the muck remaining on Ratchet’s frame and giving Drift a threatening look.

“Fine. Quit being so paranoid, Orion.” Ratchet snapped. “What’s with the escort?”

The small orange mech stepped forward and Drift analysed the mech automatically, assessing whether or not they would pose a threat. Thin, lightly-armoured, almost-but-not-quite small enough to be classed as a minibot, definitively civilian with almost nonexistant armour over the Sparkchamber that creeped Drift out. Something like that was just asking to get you offlined in this part of Rodion, that or you were advertising for the kinds of services not even mechs like Drift would offer. Slender antenna twitched on either side of the small mech’s helm and he turned to look at Drift with optics hidden behind eyepieces that didn’t look as if they were an original part of his frame.

Drift didn’t know if he wanted to hide from the orange mech’s gaze or growl a challenge at him. He ignored the conversation Ratchet was having and settled for staring the small mech down, keeping his expression bored until the small mech tilted his helm to the side and looked away.

“He coming with us?” The warrior asked, jerking his thumb at Drift.

Four sets of optics focus on Drift and he found it much easier this time to appear completely at ease as Ratchet shifted a little to put his frame between Drift and the three Cybertronians. The hurt faded a little from Drift’s Spark a little at the reminder that no matter what he said, Ratchet was still on his side.

“Well, kid? You saved my aft last night. Least I can do is help you get back on your pedes.” Ratchet offers.

The warrior gives Drift a look that shows _exactly_ where he thinks Drift should be, and it isn’t being helped by Ratchet. It’s enough for the Ovaria to overcome his dislike of the small orange mech and shrug, slide off the circuit slab and approach the group of mechs at the door.

“You saved my aft first, Ratchet.” Drift felt like he had to remind the medic. The way the enforcer’s optics crinkle above his facemask say that he approves of Drift’s glyph choice even though his Field stays professionally neutral. “Last night was payback. I’m not saying no, but-”

“I was just doing my damn job.” Ratchet interrupted. He looked like he was about to say more but the big enforcer –Orion or Pax or whatever- headed the medic off.

“You two can argue about it later, old friend.”

The last two words blew everything else out of Drift’s processors and he fell in with the small group as they left the Den. Ratchet locked up even through the warrior and small mech said something along the lines of the CMO being too valuable to continue risking himself down in Rodion. Orion Pax lead the way and the warrior brought up the rear, Drift using every sense at his disposal to try to feel out danger these pretty upper-caste mechs wouldn’t think to look for down here in the Dead End even though he still felt like he could recharge for a week. It seemed quieter than normal after the horror of the previous night. Drift didn’t know if it was because everyone was exhausted or the lawmechs everywhere were causing it or both.

He wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that Ratchet and Pax were close enough to possibly be Amica but that the enforcer didn’t know Ratchet’s true nature. Gasket had known about Drift, but that was because he’d found the young Ovaria wandering the streets and taken him in. The other guttermech had thought him a normal, if illegal, sparkling and Drift’s first full-frame transformation had been a massive shock to them both.

_At least Gasket knew I’d need more energon when he saw how much mass I_ should _have in subspace. He kept calling me lightframe_.

Thoughts of Gasket were painful but hurt less than the guilt caused by the greying frames of those caught up in the violence he’d accidentally caused. Ironically, trying not to show weakness in front of the three Cybertronians sucked energy out of Drift faster than actively searching with his abnormally sharp EM sensors.

An official transport met them at the edges of the slums and Drift was extremely glad to leave the three Cybertronians behind as they journeyed back to wherever it was Ratchet lived. At least while he was sitting down he could finally acknowledge the exhaustion still pulling at his frame after more fuel than he’d had in weeks and deeper recharge than he could remember having in decades.

_And… what we did with my eggs._

Something must have made it into his Field because Ratchet’s EMF brushed against his with _reassurance/safety/protect_.

“Not far now, kid.”

Drift swayed, physically leaning into the support of the Field, too tired to care what any observers might think and that he was still a little angry with Ratchet for his careless words back at the clinic. His optics slipped offline and he gave into the inevitable, making himself comfortable in his seat as if he didn’t care that a guttermech recharging on an official transport was basically asking to get his aft kicked by the first self-righteous jerk to come by.

“Wake me up when we get there.” He mumbled as Ratchet’s increasingly familiar EM presence once again worked its magic and eased him into dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes that was Rung. It's why he's now tagged as a character. If you've been following spoilers for this on Tumblr BE SHOOSH IN THE COMMENTS YEAH? REMEMBER THAT IGNORANCE IS BLISS and let the people who have escaped the black hole that is tumblr be happy for a little tiny bit longer ^.^;


	28. Rung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung makes an important discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *maniacal cackling*

# Twenty-Eight: RUNG

 

Rung and his handler from the Institute tracked the heat-scent to its source. His handler –a warrior whose designation he didn’t know- had been palpably disgusted at having to crawl through the lower levels of Rodion but Rung lead him unerringly to the place where the chemical aerosols were strongest. Special filters allowed the purely Cybertronian warrior to avoid the effects of the aerosols produced by the unknown Ovaria’s first heat but he still complained about the smell.

Rung didn’t mind it.

It smelled of home.

“In here, Sir.” Rung said, indicating an overhead hatch partially hidden behind a mass of conduits. “I can smell laying lubricants.”

Even if he’d known the warrior’s designation, Rung wouldn’t have used it to address the mech. His handler was an extension of his masters’ will and Rung would obey him and treat him with the same respect.

“Go do your thing.” The warrior grunted, shifting uneasily.

Rung did as ordered; climbing easily to investigate the strange Ovaria’s hidden nesting-place. It wasn’t much, just a stained and lubricant-soaked slab of berth padding in the middle of what might once have been a shop entrance back in the better days for this part of Cybertron. Two large forms had left impressions in the saturated fibres of the padding but there were no enamel traces to indicate colouration of the mechs. Rung took samples, recorded and analysed what he could with his own senses.

_Two scents, faint. Familiar? No; smelled recently._

In the darkness beneath Rodion, blue optics blazed brightly as connections formed in a hunter’s processor. Rung packed his samples carefully into subspace and left the hidden nest to drop silently beside his handler.

“I need to go back to the clinic, please.” He said diffidently. “I need to check something.”

The small building was easy enough to break into and Rung inhaled deeply, chemoreceptors reporting things that made his spark pulse faster.

No mistake; it was the same scents. They were stronger here, easier to detect without lingering smells of Heat and Laying to cover them. One was rich, mineral-heavy with a sweetish edge and the other somehow hot and dusty with other layers Rung couldn’t name.

It was in the medic’s office that Rung found the proverbial cybertronium mine.

A pile of neatly folded thermal tarps in a cupboard that reeked of lubricants and the filth of lower Rodion to Rung’s senses. The air itself stank of ascetic acid; there was an empty container in the trash with nothing to indicate that the contents had been used on anything in the clinic. He set the stack of tarps on the desk, accumulating the evidence he needed.

_… the incinerator_.

Rung found it and disabled the auto-run sequence just before it engaged. Inside there was a pile of rags soaked in a basic cleansing solution and smeared with grime and rust from Lower Cybertron. Not bothered by the mess, Rung hauled the whole lot out and paced them on the desk beside the tarps. A small bundle fell to the floor and when Rung bent to pick it up the scent of _laying/nest/eggs_ overwhelmed him, triggering a protective shutdown even as his systems automatically pinged his masters with news of his discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Clinics have small incinerators for dealing with flimsy waste that can't be/isn't worth recycling. The one in the Den is set to go at midday if there is something in it to burn. Good source of carbon, once you remove the impurities.
> 
> ~Rung has a very big part to play in upcoming events. Time to get used to seeing through someone else's optics, my dear sweetpotatoes OuO


	29. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home and hosed.  
> (Tracks is a glorious jerk)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, it's been 8 months.  
> I've started using this to prime the pump for working on other fic. Seems to be working so far?

# Twenty-Nine: Ratchet

 

Ratchet thought it was rather cute how Drift kicked his pedes up, resting them casually against the seat opposite him and slipped into recharge with an outward display of perfect confidence. He would have bet good shanix that the Ovaria was nowhere near as self-assured as he looked. Even though he was probably still exhausted from the strain of laying, Drift was probably only recharging lightly. Even if he trusted Ratchet it would have been insanity for a guttermech to go into deep defrag here. There was no way inhabitants of the Dead End could use _any_ form of transport without leaving themselves open to harassment and abuse by their social betters. Abuse of those lower down the ladder was even covertly encouraged as a way to make the caste system self-perpetuating to some extent.

 _One accident and they could end up where Drift is, or worse. And somewhere inside they know it_.

Ratchet set himself to keep watch, even though the threat level was as low as it could be in the middle of Iacon. He met the sideways looks from the Enforcers guarding them with a raised optical ridge and a cool stare, never being the first to look away.

By the time they arrived at his building Ratchet was more than ready to be out of the transport. The unspoken assumptions of the Enforcers were grating on him, irritating and making him feel dirty when normally he wouldn’t have cared.

_It’s Drift; it’s what he is and what he needs that’s making me this touchy._

Drift came out of recharge with no outward sign of the anxiety Ratchet could sense in his Field before it was sucked out of range. He stretched and cycled his vents in a massive yawn, deliberately taking his time and outright ignoring Ratchet’s subtle attempts to help him up when he stood on shaky legs to follow the medic out of the transport.

Sideways glances and hostility directed at Drift followed in their wake as they entered Ratchet’s residence building. Ratchet was growling by the time they reached the lifts, glaring daggers at the familiar mech who nipped in after them as the doors closed. Drift twitched, his armour rippling.

“Bringing some shareware back from the gutters, Ratchet?” The flashy mech asked archly, “Not your usual type, I _must_ say.”

This time it was Drift who growled. Ratchet held an arm out without thinking, catching the Ovaria across the chest as he stepped forward with pure violence in his Field, obviously intent on pounding the noblemech into the floor.

“You’re off your gossip game today, Tracks.” Ratchet said in a bored tone, “There were riots all through Rodion night. Drift here tipped me off before I ran right into them, showed me a bolthole and saved my life. So I’m sponsoring him. People keep saying I need an assistant or something and he certainly thinks better on his pedes and stays cooler under pressure than all the applicants I’ve had so far, if last night was anything to go by.”

The pressure against Ratchet’s arm eased as Drift stopped trying to subtly push his way past to get at Tracks and settled for smirking at the noble instead. Tracks lost for words for a full twenty seconds, probably digesting what Ratchet had said.

 _That has to be a new record. How hung over_ is _he this morning?_

“Well, if anyone can get away with being eccentric it’s you.” Tracks finally said with a disdainful sniff.

“You got it.” Ratchet snapped as the lift stopped at his floor. “Bye now.”

He left the lift at a fast walk with Drift following close behind. His plating crawled with the need to be clean. A few minutes in Tracks’ company left him feeling more contaminated than hours lying in the filth of deep Rodion with Drift.

“Scrub, fuel and rest. In that order.” Ratchet said as he let them into his apartment and sealed the door behind them. “Otherwise you’ll probably fall asleep as soon as your tanks register full.”

Drift stopped casing out his living room to shoot him a sceptical look, his Field hard and defensive.

“I’m not _that_ badly off.” He grumbled, allowing Ratchet to steer him towards the washracks. “Had way more fuel in the last day than I normally do.”

“And your frame has been put through some serious strain it normally wouldn’t deal with, either.” Ratchet shot back without missing a beat. His own tanks still rolled uncomfortably when he remembered what he’d put into them. “Trust me kid, I know what I’m talking about.”

As the washrack door closed behind them Drift muttered something that Ratchet pretended not to hear. He activated the sprays and they stood in silence as warm cleanser sluiced them down, Drift twitching and alternating between flaring his armour and pulling it tight to his frame. When Ratchet figured they were soaked enough he went to the wall cubby and got the brushes he thought they’d need.

_He’s gonna need a thorough clean but a good scrubbing should be enough for today._

Testing Drift’s reflexes, Ratchet tossed the Ovaria one of the broad armour brushes. He caught it with a fumble, scowling at Ratchet as he approached.

“Don’t look at me like that. We’ll have a quick scrub now and a proper deep clean tomorrow when you’re not quite so wrung out.” Ratchet said, Drift’s silent antagonism combined with the suspicious brushes from his EM Field put Ratchet on the defensive. “What? I’m gonna need to give you a proper physical to make sure there’s nothing to give you away when you approach the Eval-Group to find out what jobs you fit from what’s available. Easier to do that if you’re clean.”

“Clean is _dangerous_. Makes you stand out.” Drift growled despite the brief flash of yearning in his Field and expression. “Standing out means you get caught.”

_Ah, right._

“It’s the opposite way ‘round on these levels, kiddo.” Ratchet explained, “Especially if you’re hanging around these kinds of places. You’re gonna need a detailing too, something to bring you up to apprentice or aide-level in the optics of these mechs. It’s just another way of hiding in plain sight. Blending in, show them what they expect to see.”

He could see from the thoughtful expression on Drift’s face that he was getting through to the stubborn Ovaria.

_Still can’t believe he’s survived as long as he has on his own. Stubborn probably isn’t the word for him…_

“I guess that makes sense.” Drift said cautiously, his movements brisk as he raised the scrub-brush and started attacking his arms. “Not gonna work very well if you keep throwing the booster thing in my face.”

“If I keep… what?” Ratchet replayed the last few seconds of audial feed over a few times but it still didn’t make sense.

Drift turned on him, armour flared aggressively and optics blazing. Despite the aggression in his posture there was deep hurt in his Field, fresh pain layered over old.

“And you don’t even slagging remember doing it!” The Ovaria snarled. “ _Typical_. Boosters? The first time we met? Back at the Den you said you didn’t want me getting any more holes you’d _have_ to fix.”

Drift was shaking, his hands clenched so tightly on the brush the sturdy material was creaking in protest. The harmonics of his glyphs hit Ratchet like a punch to the face, implications that he thought the speedster was a burden when the reality was everything but. Feeling sick, Ratchet called up the memory and suddenly realised how his habitual grouching must have sounded to Drift. Dragging a hand over his faceplates, Ratchet wondered if there was any way to salvage the situation or ever return to the Ovaria’s good graces.

_I deserve a good hard kicking for this._

“Drift, I’m a grumpy sod with a very bad habit of speaking before thinking or running my mouth when I should keep it welded closed.” Ratchet tried to project his sincerity and remorse, not sure how much Drift was willing to listen to right at that point. “I am very, very sorry for saying something like that to you. It was completely uncalled-for and I apologise.”

Drift stared silently at him with an unreadable expression for several long minutes as warm solvent pattered over their frames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not wasting any more time answering comments that would be answered by reading the note at the start of this fic.


	30. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing goes as Drift expects it to.

# Thirty: Drift

 

A lifetime of practice kept the apprehension flooding Drift’s frame out of his expression and Field while he waited for Ratchet to react. He hadn’t meant to bring the subject up so soon. He still wasn’t completely sure of the Incubator. If goading him like this didn’t provoke a beating then there was a good chance the mech was as genuine as he seemed. Everything he’d seen of the mech so far encouraged him to trust but a lifetime of hard lessons in the gutters had gifted him with suspicion too deeply ingrained to be thrown over on the basis of a day’s association with someone.

Even if that someone had done him nothing but good.

 _I want to trust him. Something in me_ needs _to trust him and that scares me._

Ratchet’s reaction was the last thing Drift expected.

He tensed when the Incubator raised a blunt-fingered Cybertronian hand, only to relax again when Ratchet ran it over his own faceplates.

“Drift, I’m a grumpy sod with a very bad habit of speaking before thinking or running my mouth when I should keep it welded closed.” Ratchet’s Field was filled with genuine remorse as he spoke, an emotion that felt completely honest. “I am very, very sorry for saying something like that to you. It was completely uncalled-for and I apologise.”

Drift gaped, trying to wrap his processors around Ratchet’s words as warm liquid from the showers rained down on them.

“So… you’re gonna say things like that again.” Drift needed clarification, needed to know what was going on.

Ratchet grimaced and looked away, his Field chagrined and self-conscious. Drift caught flickers of old regret in several flavours as well as the fresh and strengthening guilt.

“Something like.” Ratchet muttered. “I’ll try to keep a better leash on my glossa from here on out.”

Grime continued to run from Drift’s frame and down the drain as he considered, taking what he knew of this mech and holding it up against the others he’d known enough to trust.

_He’s got a good Spark, I think. He wouldn’t have done all that otherwise._

“Just don’t bring _that_ up again.” Drift said, feeling a thrill of defiance surging through his systems and readying them for action. “Anything but that.”

Ratchet nodded acceptance, taking the wind from Drift’s sails. He’d expected a disagreement, an argument or something.

“I doubt it’ll really be ‘anything’ kid,” Ratchet said with a wry smile. “Just let me know when I’ve stepped out of line and I’ll make sure I don’t do it again.”

Something about his glyphs sent a chill through Drift’s lines. He dropped the armour brush as something rose in his memory.

“No code edits.” He growled, lunging forward to close the distance between them and grabbing Ratchet’s wrists. “ _No code edits_.”

Blue optics cycled rapidly, confusion spilled out into his Field but he nodded again as Drift exerted almost crushing pressure, only restraining himself when he heard metal creak beneath his hands.

“Alright, no code edits.” Ratchet finally said, his voice grumpy while his Field was prickly and uncomfortable with something Drift recognised. “Now can I have my hands back before you pull them off?”

_Oh. He’s not used to people caring and looking out for him, either._

Immediately Drift let go, dropped Ratchet's wrists as if he’d been burned and took a step back to get himself some more room. Despite a lifetime of experience telling him that he needed to back up more, that he’d just instigated a fight and needed more room to work with Drift found himself taking a risk and stopping where he was. Nothing in Ratchet’s Field suggested that he’d retaliate in kind and right now Drift was quite happy to risk a blow in order to stay close. He wanted to feel the same kind of safety he’d felt the previous nightcycle, slipping into recharge with that Field wrapped around him.

“You ready to scrub off now?” Ratchet asked in a low voice. “I need to check those gouges on your abdomen too, with everything going on last night I forgot to check them.” There was guilt in his Field now and for some reason it made Drift want to roll his optics. “Transforming should have helped keep them closed, but I don’t want to take any risks. Can’t, actually; not with my medical coding.”

_Won’t just be the medical coding, I think. I really need to look at those files properly._

Suddenly Drift could feel every single particle of dirt on his frame. He didn’t exactly like being this dirty, no speedster-frame did. Survival had meant tolerating it and so he’d done what was needed. Ratchet’s earlier words had finally made it through to his survival protocols and readjusted his priority trees. Now he was in a place where things were opposite. And besides that, he wanted to help scrub Ratchet down if the Incubator would let him. It was an idea coming partly from his own spark and partly from the strange new impulses he’d been feeling over the last few weeks.

_I wonder if all this explains the blanket hoarding? I thought it was the drugs, but maybe…?_

“Alright.” Drift projected _agree/understand/anticipation_ and looked around for the dropped armour brush. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek what these two are doing anymore ahahahaha _fuck_


	31. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cleaning up and checking in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been using this to get into writing-mode on days when I'm just not feeling it. Kinda working? idk
> 
> **Notes:**   
>  _~Hardline communication~_

# Thirty-One: Ratchet

 

Helping Drift scrub himself off was an exercise in self-control. Once he’d resigned himself to losing what was probably a sensible layer of camouflage for his paler plating in the Dead End the Ovaria was completely uninhibited in his reactions. He wasn’t loud, no inhabitant of the Dead End survived long if they made enough noise to stand out, but Drift's soft sighs and purrs of bliss combined with the ripple-throb of his Field made his throat itch.

Ratchet kept a tight hold over his Field and forcibly offlined his vocaliser when it wasn’t absolutely necessary to speak so his frame wouldn’t betray him by allowing his vocaliser to transform so he could respond to Drift’s unintentional display with an enticing song. Everything in Drift’s Field was pure sensuality without a hint of eroticism and Ratchet didn’t want to let his libido ruin the moment for Drift.

 _When was the last time he could scrub off without worrying about being trapped and attacked? Besides, you_ shouldn’t _be interested in him like that._

Then Drift insisted on helping him scrub down and Ratchet nearly choked. When his processors started working again he was torn. It was obviously a gesture of reconciliation after Ratchet’s apology for his thoughtless comments at the clinic, and refusing the help risked pushing Drift away. But he didn’t want Drift to pick up on his inappropriate reactions and have a whole new set of (completely justified) reasons to be angry with him. In the end he accepted and endured several awkward minutes of scrubbing with Drift hovering far too close for Ratchet’s peace of mind.

Drying off was more of the same, with Ratchet fighting down a purr when Drift helped get the awkward damp spots on his back that he could never reach by himself. Drift’s Field turned shy when Ratchet thanked him but he didn’t flinch when Ratchet returned the favour of drying his backplates off.

“Alright, I’m going to need you to lie down so I can check those cuts.” Ratchet kept his voice low. It felt wrong to break the silence but he needed to. “I need to make sure you missed neural lines and they’re not going to fester. It’s something _we_ need to watch out for with the mass-shifting.”

Apparently taking this all in stride, Drift nodded and half-turned so he could look at Ratchet over his freshly-scrubbed pauldron.

“Ok, where?” His voice was all innocence as he added “Will you need to access my medical port to check anything?”

Drift's  Field was full of caution and Ratchet figured the Ovaria was trying to offer a secure way to communicate. His apartment wasn't bugged but Drift didn’t know that. On the other hand it would be easier to answer any questions Drift had if he could transfer information instead of relying on spoken glyphs which could be misunderstood.

“That would be handy, thank you.” Ratchet said as he led Drift into the main room. “If you like I can examine you on the couch in here or you can lie flat on my berth. Whichever you’re more comfortable with.”

Drift thought for a moment, his helm tilting from side to side as he examined the room and the rather small two-mech-sized thing Ratchet used called a couch. He really wanted to give Drift the choice of where the younger Syngnath would be treated, since the couch was likely to be a little awkward because of its small size but his berth awkward for other reasons.

_It’s not like I have much time for visitors so there’s been no need to get more seats or a bigger couch…_

“I might be easier if I can lie flat, right?” Drift said, his next words surprising Ratchet. “So the fluid lines don’t do weird spurty things when I move around again.”

 “That only happens if you miss small tears or weak spots that get torn open when your internal pressure changes.” Ratchet automatically corrected the speedster even as he led the way to his berthroom with Drift following obediently behind him. “It’s not likely to happen here since I’m a fully qualified surgeon and medic. With someone self-taught or in too much of a hurry to do a full check for peripheral damage it is a legitimate concern.”

Even the vague hint of praise in his final sentences made Drift glow with quiet pride as he settled awkwardly on the edge of Ratchet’s berth, testing the layer of padding with a subtle squeeze. Ratchet didn’t use the berth much, preferring the deliberately messy-looking pile of blankets between it and the wall. It wasn’t a proper nest but that was still how Ratchet thought of it. It was easier for him to recharge in that pile of blankets and safer all round if it looked like he was a restless sleeper or the kind of ‘bot who just threw all the coverings over the side of the berth when he crawled out of it in the morning.

The fact that his berth was so obviously unused seemed to reassure Drift a little. He picked his pedes up and shuffled around so that he was lying on the berth properly, looking up at Ratchet with wary yellow optics.

“Should I transform?” He asked, armour shifting to expose his thoracic dataports. “You know, just in case anything got mashed in there last time I did.”

Recent memory crowded to the front of Ratchet’s processor. The deep layers of Rodion, lying on a lubricant-drenched berth pad of questionable origin. Scent of laying all around, coaxing an exhausted Drift through every step of an agonisingly slow transformation. He shook it off with an effort, Drift’s concern buzzing harshly against his EM sensors.

_Should have checked and irrigated those punctures as soon as I had the chance. Where the slag was my processor last night?_

He knew where it had been, deeper instincts overriding even his formidable medical coding and rendering everything else secondary to ensuring they survived undetected.

 _The kid’s first-heat pheromones everywhere wouldn’t have helped, either_.

“Not right now, I need to check a few things first.” Ratchet let his armour slide aside and unspooled a diagnostic cable from beside the glass pane of his chestplate. “I can run an external scan for foreign bodies while I check the status of your self-repair systems.”

Drift seemed to take this in stride, nodding and flicking his optics at the cable Ratchet was holding carefully in his fingertips.

“Alright, go for it.”

Nodding and steeling himself, Ratchet plugged in and opened a conversation channel while his initial diagnostics ran.

~ _You can_ do _this with a medical connection?_ ~ Drift spoke first, amazement rolling off him as Ratchet began a much-delayed examination of his wounded abdomen.

~ _Medics can_.~ He said absently, letting an optical enhancer fold out of his helm as he bent closer to Drift’s frame. ~ _How you holding up, kid?_ ~

~ _I’m not a slagging_ child _, not according to my frame and those files you gave me_ ~ Drift shot over the connection as his engine gave a muffled snarl.

Ratchet winced internally, embarrassment and a touch of regret making it into his Field while his hands remained perfectly steady on Drift’s armour.

~ _I call all of my friends by nicknames_.~ He responded, microtools extending from his fingers to straighten the edges of ragged puncture marks created by Drift’s claws. The Ovaria’s armour was so thin Ratchet didn’t need to use anything stronger. ~ _Yours just happens to be ‘Kid’_.~

It had started from the way Drift had looked when coming around from surgery –lost, confused and with optics dilated in a look of sleepy innocence that had vanished the instant he’d seen Orion Pax standing in the corner. Ratchet had deliberately continued using it to help himself maintain the distance and objectivity he desperately needed.

~ _I.. we’re_ _friends?_ ~

Those glyphs combined with the flood of shock/incredulity in Drift’s Field forced Ratchet to halt his examination and give the speedster his full attention.

~ _Yes, I consider you a friend. Or someone who I would like to get to know better with an optic to becoming friends_ ~ _At the very least_ ; Ratchet managed to stop himself before adding those glyphs, choosing to continue in a different vein ~ _Just don’t call me ‘Crankshaft’; that’s Ironhide_.~

He could see the question coming, the expression on Drift’s face and the feel of his Field warning Ratchet with plenty of time to dodge. Splaying his fingers carefully over the thin armour of Drift’s abdomen, Ratchet let his inbuilt micro-welder and smooth-nosed pliers unfold. The sound and movement of transformation caught Drift’s attention, dim yellow optics shifting focus from Ratchet’s face to his hands.

“Alright, I’m going to straighten these stab-wounds out and then we can catch a quick nap before fuelling time.” He said aloud. “I’m going to upload a few temporary code patches to numb you from the chest down. Your frame is still going to be attached and you can see it’s all still there so there’s no need to freak out when you can’t feel your legs, got it?”

Drift rolled his optics, despite that being an extremely sensible thing to warn his frametype about.

“Got it, Ratchet.” The Ovaria said, folding his hands behind his neck to prop his helm up, optics brightening with interest as Ratchet installed the patches and got to work.

Drift’s wounds were minor and given Ratchet’s multi-threading upgrades took up very little of his awareness, leaving him with nothing to distract him from something else that needed to be done. Something he wished he was free to offer in the proper context.

 _He doesn’t know. He_ can’t _know. Maybe one day, if I’m very lucky. But that won’t be any time soon._

Bracing himself, Ratchet checked his Field for stray impulses and sending a message over the medical connection before he completely lost his nerve.

_~This is going to take a few minutes, you should think about when you want to, um, where you would prefer we… what you want to do about Ampulla.~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No way was Ratchet going to tell Drift what any of his nicknames are. Nope, no way. Nuh-uh. Not happening. ( _yet_ , because I love torturing my faves Drift is gonna find out eventually. Poor Ratchet OuO)


	32. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift makes the most awkward proposition of his life.  
> (Twice.)

# Thirty-Two: Drift

 

_What do I want to do about Ampulla?_

Drift contemplated the question while Ratchet worked. He knew exactly what he wanted, but didn’t know how to put it into words that sounded right. Nothing in his life or the files from Ratchet gave him any clues.

_I want… I want… Anything, everything. Him._

While he was wracking his processors Drift’s frame answered for him. His throat itched, vocaliser aching in brief transformation. Then a familiar sound filled Ratchet’s relatively small berthroom.

_The frag am I humming for?!_

Drift caught the shock and delight in Ratchet’s Field before the emotions were whisked away, the medic’s vents cycling audibly.

“Um… just let me finish up here first, kid.” Ratchet’s accent was less cultured now, carrying an edge of something else. “My apartment is clean; no bugs. We’ll be safe in here.”

It made absolutely no sense to Drift.

“What?”

“You’re **singing** and your Field went… _well_.” Ratchet looked distinctly uncomfortable as his fingers flew to repair Drift’s abdomen. “I was trying to explain why I didn’t respond right away. I’m not rejecting you kid; I just can’t accept while I’m doing this.”

Ratchet’s EMF projections filled in the blanks and Drift felt shame and something else heat his frame as he realised what Ratchet meant.

“So that humming is a _thing_ , then?” He asked, trying to cover his embarrassment. “As in a thing we do?”

“Yes.” Ratchet’s attention was mostly on what he was doing. “It’s… slag, it’s mainly a communication thing. It wouldn’t have been in the files I gave you; too complex. Like the difference between downloading an official language pack from the archives here in Iacon and picking one up in the relevant territory.”

Drift grumbled, wishing he could move.

“So it’s better to learn as I go, then?” He asked, tuning in to Ratchet’s Field and watching his face carefully. “So I don’t get stuck with a bunch of formal rules and outdated slag?”

He caught surprise and pride flickering through the Incubator’s Field.

“Exactly. And it’s too context-dependent.” Ratchet was using his welding tool to heat Drift’s armour, bending it back into place and closing the puncture wounds carefully.  “Better to let your social algorithms handle it than bog you down with a pile of confusing and contradictory scrap.”

A fragment of recent memory surfaced and Drift frowned at the ceiling.

“Is it just for hitting on people?” He asked. “Because I was… to my eggs. Before _and_ after, after I…” Drift couldn’t finish that sentence. It hurt too much.

Ratchet’s Field firmed against his, pressing a sense of support and understanding. His hands stilled, resting on the armour of Drift’s lower chest where he couldn’t feel it.

“I’m guessing it would have been a welcoming song,” Ratchet’s voice was soft and he couldn’t meet Drift’s optics, looking down at his hands. “If any had been sparked they would have responded. I sang to my younglings when they were in my chamber, and when they were old enough they sang too. I could hear them the same way you can hear things in the next room by pressing your audial to an uninsulated wall.”

The Incubator looked as if he was a million miles away in space and time, lost in his memories. His Field was hazy and distant, filled with bittersweet nostalgia and an almost painful longing Drift thought he understood all too well.

“So, for lots of different reasons, and the reason depends on the situation.” Drift murmured, trying to distract himself from his own memories. “Listing them would take a slagload of storage space.”

With a shake, Ratchet pulled himself back to the present, his Field solidifying again as he resumed work.

“Precisely.” Ratchet sounded brisk, his movements quick and precise as he closed up the last of the self-inflicted puncture wounds. “I’m going to restore movement and most feeling now, I’ll leave some timed programs to suppress moderate to minor pain signals from the injury site. Three days should give your self-repair enough time to integrate that lot. Tell me if it hurts at all, since that means I’ve missed something or you’ve done more damage.”

It was weird, having someone care about his welfare like this. Even the others in the little family Gasket had forged had all had their own concerns that meant they all only had so much energy to use in caring for each other. At the end of the day their own survival had to be top priority. It’s just how things were in the Dead End. Confusion and a strange, warm feeling -like that old affection, but somehow different- filled Drift as Ratchet unplugged from his medical ports and helped him sit up on the berth. Confusion at being

_Weird, but I think I like it. He feels safe._

Something clicked in Drift’s processors as he reflexively checked the condition of the twin rows of neat welds dotting his abdomen and let Ratchet lead him through a series of movements to check for lingering injury. Ratchet felt _safe_ because they were the same; Drift didn’t have to be constantly on guard for fear of letting his true nature slip. And there was something about his Field and the scent of the mech hanging thick in Ratchet’s dwelling that relaxed deeper layers of Drift’s code that were usually on constant alert.

_I can be myself. Whoever that is._

Part of Drift hoped that without the constant anxiety of being a lone Syngnath surrounded by Cybertronians and with the promise of regular fuel he wouldn’t need Syk and boosters so much, but the rest of him was more realistic. Even an improved life was still one he would need an escape from, he’d seen too much for it to be otherwise. In any case he would still have the constant threat of discovery hanging over him, and simply being around Ratchet increased their odds of discovery by amounts he couldn’t calculate.

_And Unicron-slagged withdrawls. They fragging_ suck _._

It was something he’d have to deal with, but later. Not now when Ratchet had obviously run out of ways to stall and his Field was going tight, almost crystallising with apprehension against the sensors of Drift’s horns. He _felt_ the mechanisms of his throat crawl and rearrange themselves this time, minor transformation sequences allowing his vocaliser to change without the rest of his frame following.

“So…” Drift started and then stopped speaking in surprise. He sounded almost nothing like himself. His voice had been enriched and augmented nearly beyond recognition. “Um, I’d like to… Ampulla. When you’re ready.”

Almost painfully awkward and probably the worst proposition Drift have ever made, but the new harmonic layers to his voice still made it sound like a spoken song. Ratchet was staring at him, standing perfectly still. The armour near his major vents shifted a little, breaking the illusion of a medic-statue.

“Do you need fuel?” Ratchet asked, obviously stalling. He looked like he was fighting with himself. Drift’s horns tingled, itched right down to the base and suddenly he was _certain_ of it.

He checked his fuel levels anyway. Ratchet was the same as him, he could probably read a mech’s Field to tell when they were lying just as easily as Drift could.

“Gonna be fine for a while, even with autorepair running hot.” Drift’s thought his voice sounded a bit more businesslike now, although he still wasn’t sure. “Still in the high 70s.”

“Ok. Right. And th-the Ampulla will give you an energy reserve to draw on as well.” Ratchet sounded strange. Drift could see his throat cabling shifting and rippling. “Would you like us to use my nest, or should I build a temporary one in the washracks?” The Incubator’s voice hadn’t changed much, but Drift could feel a difference creeping into his Field as Ratchet added in a rush. “It’s as defensible as in here. I checked the building and suite thoroughly before _and_ after moving in.”

Roughly half of what he said made sense to Drift; the half about defensibility and safety. The rest of it, however…

“Huh?”

Ratchet looked as confused as Drift felt. His processors were starting to ache, a familiar background itch threaded through his lines. Drift shook his helm and tried again.

“The slag was that about a nest? I don’t… I don’t get it.” He shrugged helplessly, hands palms-up and remarkably steady despite the length of time since his last hit.

Comprehension flickered across Ratchet’s faceplates and Drift caught the distinct buzz of a desire to face-palm in the medic’s Field.

“Negotiations can be complicated, but since we’re not courting for anything and this is for your health you have the choice of location.” Ratchet’s rich voice was low and he seemed saddened by something. “If you don’t think you’ll feel comfortable in a place that is ‘mine’ so to speak, I can build a nest somewhere you’d feel more comfortable, somewhere more like neutral ground.”

Ratchet’s Field was harder to read now, thick with complicated emotions that Drift couldn’t quite grasp and starting to pull away as Drift just stared silently.

_Washracks might be easier to clean up if this is as messy as laying was, but for Primus’ sake he’s done enough already._

“Your nest will be _fine_.” Drift surprised himself by speaking abruptly, almost snapping at the older Syngnath before he controlled his tone, projecting _acceptance/gratitude/apology_. “That’s if you’re ok with having me in there. It’s your recharge space and all.”

Ratchet’s optics flickered, the shutters cycling closed for a split second as he shivered. Something hot, yearning and delicious trembled through his Field before those teal-tinted blue optics cycled open again to fix Drift with a blazing slit-pupilled gaze.

“It would be… absolutely fine with me, kid.” Despite having the full range of his Syngnathi harmonics Ratchet’s voice still sounded hoarse and something like victory thrilled Drift to the core.

Something more genuine than his trademark cocky come-on grin stretched Drift’s cheekplates as he stood slowly and extended a hand to Ratchet.

“Then lead the way, Ratch.”


	33. Rung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief return to the hunter

# Thirty-Three: Rung

 

A familiar forced-boot sequence pulled Rung back to consciousness long before he was ready.

There was a brief flicker of something spark-born through his thoughts before his higher functions booted, there and gone too fast to be written to memory.

Physical sensation was the first thing to register properly. Rung was lying somewhere cold and hard, curled on his side. The air smelled of filth, acid and stale lubricants. An impatient flare of a purely Cybertronian EMF had him sitting up immediately, one hand checking his optic shields before dropping to join the other in his lap.

That Field wasn’t to be disobeyed, as Rung knew all too well.

He was still in Rodion, still in the little clinic in the Dead End. The chronometer on his very basic HUD showed that he had been out for a significant number of hours. That he hadn’t been removed and simply left to recover where he’d fallen told him something of the situation.

_They have use for me here, now._

“We are moving on all three targets tonight.” The Master said.

There had only been one target before, a brightly-painted Senator Rung had identified after a contrived meeting. He could easily guess the trumped-up charges that would be used to bring the mech down. Sedition, treason, attempts to subvert the Council and the Current Order with a hand-picked crew of dissidents. So far as Rung was aware not a word of it was true. There would be just enough truth in the web of lies to make everything sound plausible.

All because Rung had identified the mech as an Incubator. As Syngnath.

Something that might have been remorse flitted through Rung’s spark, firmly ignored in the interest of self-preservation.

_The two new targets must be the medic and speedster._

“You will go with the second team. Your job is to subdue the Ovaria. Get authority over him at any cost.”

Rung didn’t know what story would surround this particular disappearing act, nor did he want to know.

Rung nodded, perfectly obedient.

“Understood, Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those unfamiliar with my Syngnath AUs, Shockwave is an Incubator.


	34. Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No more stalling.  
> For either Drift or Ratchet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't like alien sex or oviposition-like nuptial gifting, skip this chapter.  
> This is long, sappy and NOT SAFE FOR ANYTHING
> 
> Relevant physiology headcanons:  
> Claspers are basically tentacles. Each Syngnath has 4 spaced evenly around their valves. All other 'equipment' is stored internally and is significantly more fragile than a standard Cybertronian's spike.  
> During egg or ampulla transferrence the 'active' Syngnath will bite on the horn of the receptive one, this activates something like a scruffing response to keep the partner still. The active Syngnath's frame locks up automatically so no reciprocal hold is required.

# Thirty-Four: Ratchet

 

The world around him held a dreamlike quality as Ratchet took Drift’s hand and finished his transformation, swallowing hard as Drift followed his lead and returned to his true form.

 _I was right. He_ is _tall…_

With all disguises dropped and standing upright Drift was barely half-a-helm shorter than Ratchet, the tapering blades of his horns ending on a level with Ratchet’s helm crest. He stared, transfixed, until Drift’s fingers twitched against Ratchet’s palm and forced him back to reality.

Guiltily he turned and led Drift around the side of the unused berth structure, to his nest-that-wasn’t hidden between the edge of the berth’s supporting slab and the wall. It wasn’t until he tried to speak that Ratchet realised that Drift was singing low in his vocaliser again, and Ratchet was unconsciously harmonising with him.

_I am so slagged._

“You checked the files properly?” Ratchet asked, unable to keep his words from following the subtle melody of Drift’s low song.

Wide-opticed, the Ovaria nodded. His lips were slightly parted and Ratchet fought the urge to lean forward and kiss them open, to swallow the Ovaria’s song, take it into himself and give it back a thousandfold. Instead he nodded sharply, feeling his horns come dangerously close to the ceiling of his berthroom.

_The slag am I nearly standing at attention for?_

“Right.” Ratchet nodded again, stalling for time. It was impossible to relax but at least he managed to keep himself from puffing his chest out at Drift. “So.”

They stood awkwardly for a few seconds.

“Yes?” Drift prompted when Ratchet took too long.

The young slagger was _grinning_ at him, a single sharpened denta visible at the side where he’d bitten his lower lip in a failed attempt to keep the smile contained to one side of his mouth. Mirth danced in Drift’s optics and his Field was dangerously warm, fizzing with anticipation and something else against Ratchet, a tension and anxiety he wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with.

“So.” Ratchet repeated, then managed to get control of himself. “I’m thinking me on my back would be best for this, given the structural integrity part of your systems’ report.”

Ignoring Drift’s startled expression, Ratchet let go of the Ovaria’s hand and turned to rearrange the upper layers of his nest-pile. The low sound of Drift’s singing reached his audials as he fussed, warming his spark as well as certain parts of his frame as the melody took on a distinctive pulsing rhythm.

When Ratchet was satisfied with the condition of his nest he lay down, wriggled around until he was comfortable and looked up at Drift. The Ovaria was staring at him with naked longing in his expression and a certain hunger in his Field. Projecting _welcome/invitation_ and trying to keep the unsteady feeling in his Spark from reaching his Field Ratchet beckoned to the speedster hovering just outside his nest. All of Drift’s bravado seemed to have abandoned him now that reality was hitting him in the face.

“Wh-where do you…” _Where do you want me?_ His Field finished the sentence for him, alternately pulling back and surging forward to silently beg for support and guidance. Even without the commands of his own coding Ratchet wouldn’t have been able to resist the strength of Drift’s Field.

“If you sit on my belly and slide back a bit we should be able to reach just fine.” Ratchet kept his voice low and reassuring, soothing the jagged spikes of anxiety in Drift’s Field as best he could. “You can sit up or lie on me, whatever you feel like doing. If the, ah, the **hold** bugs you I can clamp down on my arm or something.”

Moving slowly, Drift did as directed. Stooping, he crawled carefully over the low ‘wall’ of tumbled blankets and cushions until he reached Ratchet. The tension in his Field suddenly peaked then vanished like smoke on the wind as he set his jaw and continued until he was right over Ratchet, looking him in the face with weight supported on hands braced on either side of the Incubator’s broad chest and his pelvic armour directly above Ratchet’s own. Anticipation and concern surged through Ratchet in alternating waves as he forced his vents to cycle steadily.

Serious yellow optics stared into – _through_ \- Ratchet for a long minute then Drift shocked him by crouching, draping his warm frame over the Incubator like a living blanket. Slowly Drift slid his knees back until his legs were nearly straight, held apart by Ratchet’s thighs where he’d left them slightly apart to allow his aedeagus room to emerge. Drift’s Field held the hesitation that his movements didn’t show as he settled his helm comfortably on Ratchet’s shoulder, leaving the sweeping bladelike shapes of his horns within easy reach of Ratchet’s mouth. Something that could have been a moan jolted from Ratchet’s vocaliser and morphed into the opening notes of a not-entirely-appropriate song before he got control of it again.

 _Stop it; you’re_ not _courting him. Not for that, not for_ anything _. He has better options than you, fool._

“Don’t stop? That sounded nice.” Drift murmured, nudging Ratchet’s nasal ridge with a horn. He fumbled around until Ratchet figured out what he was doing and moved his hands closer so Drift could find them. When he did the Ovaria grabbed him almost too tightly, backing off and switching his grip to a forearm clasp the moment discomfort registered in Ratchet’s neural net. “And, um, you don’t have to bite on your arm. My horn’s fine. And we just washed it too, so you won’t get poisoned or anything.”

The thread of self-deprecating humour in Drift’s Field felt slightly hysterical, but it was better than the hints of panic that had been there earlier. Instead of speaking Ratchet snorted and shook his helm a little, wrapping Drift in his Field.

“You ready, kid?” He remembered Drift’s earlier request at the last moment, adding a soft whispering series of notes as he ran a thumb over the edge of the wheel well in Drift’s forearm, trying to comfort.

“As ready as I’m ever going to be.” Drift sighed explosively, vents blasting Ratchet with lukewarm air. “Let’s just do this before I think too much about the mechanics and change my mind, ok?”

Letting _understanding/acknowledgement_ fill his Field where it wrapped around Drift, Ratchet finally eased the control he’d been holding over his vocaliser.

“Got it.” His let his words become song as he continued, backing it up with gentle, rolling caresses of his Field. “So, Fields first and then I’ll try to make the rest as easy as possible.”

Already responding to the melody beneath Ratchet’s words and the effects of the light Fieldplay, Drift sighed in resignation and nodded against the Incubator’s chestplate, settling himself more comfortably. Deliberately ignoring the fluttering of his Spark, Ratchet allowed his voice to rise, filling the room with sound that did it’s best to express the emotions he wouldn’t allow into his Field.

Delicately, Ratchet used his Field to soothe and stimulate the Ovaria, trying his best to draw away stress and strain and replace it with a sense of safety, approval and the arousal needed for this to work. Careful pulses tested Drift’s willingness as slowly, slowly, _painfully_ slowly the speedster relaxed. When Ratchet deliberately increased the pressure of his Field and took advantage of their proximity to press a sense of charge below Drift’s armour the younger Syngnath shivered and gasped, going tense until Ratchet crooned reassuringly. He could feel the inevitable response of Drift’s frame to his Fieldplay and the conflict this created within Drift as the Ovaria’s Field roiled against his.

Without realising what he was doing, Ratchet turned his helm towards Drift, his own horns catching on the blankets and jolting him back to reality just before he could do something stupid, say kiss the top of the Ovaria’s helm or something. Instead he rested his cheek on the speedster’s crest and responded to the complicated burst of _discomfort/arousal/unpleasant/longing/entreaty_ from Drift with steady patience and understanding, lowering the tone and volume of his song to vibrate right through their frames in the closest thing to an infrasound purr he was capable of producing.

This time when Ratchet pressed his Field forward Drift moaned and shuddered, the inward-drawn sense of his Field uncoiling in a rush to reciprocate. The power of it nearly stunned the Incubator into silence, his song faltering briefly as Drift wriggled against him, powerful Field showing Ratchet more than the Ovaria probably intended as they fell into synch, the heat between them building in waves until it burst within Ratchet, spreading to Drift through their deeply enmeshed Fields.

Ratchet’s audials were still ringing with Drift’s cry of surprised ecstasy as awareness returned slowly in the wake of the most powerful Field overload of his life.

Above him Drift still radiated _dazed/stunned/blissed,_ obviously not having expected to overload. Something dripped onto Ratchet’s uncomfortably cool crotch and he realised with a start that his pelvic armour had opened, freeing his claspers to search for their counterparts on the Ovaria lying atop him. Given that the dripping came from above, Drift’s armour had probably released during overload as well.

A questing clasper brushed against something soft, warm and slick that responded positively to the attention. Drift jerked and Ratchet reacted without a thought, whipping his head around to catch one of the Ovaria’s horns between his denta and taking a firm grip. He could feel Drift fighting the lethargy that would be creeping through his frame and rumbled soothingly, surrounding the panicky younger Syngnath with calm and as much reassurance as he could muster, given their current situation.

With a strangled whine Drift stopped fighting his frame’s reaction to the hold and he sagged against Ratchet, obviously not happy with the situation. The response to Ratchet’s sense of query and the slow relaxation of his hold on Drift’s horn was a sense of _determination/acceptance/DO IT_ that he replied to with a wash of _warmth/respect/affection_ and a slow scale of the lowest notes in his register, beginning a deliberate search for Drift’s claspers.

He shivered when he found them, moaning low in his throat at the slick slide of clasper on clasper that he hadn’t felt in far too long. Interest and curiosity trickled through Drift’s Field as their claspers worked together to spread lubricant around, increasing sensation and bringing a specific kind of pleasure that Ratchet hadn’t found anything to equal since moving to Cybertron.

Shifting pressure inside his frame announced the descent of his aedeagus and Ratchet’s careful song disintegrated into a long, low groan as the tip emerged to be greeted by eight excitedly wriggling claspers. Despite the momentary stab of disgust through Drift’s Field the Ovaria didn’t panic, simply allowing their frames to guide Ratchet to his entrance. As soon as the head of his aedeagus slid into the Ovaria’s frame Ratchet’s motor controls locked, freezing him in place so he couldn’t damage either of them. Ha barely noticed, too focused on Drift and the very real possibility that the young Ovaria could panic to pay attention to his frame. He was prepared for nearly every possibility except Drift using his callipers to practically _pull_ Ratchet into him, which was what the eerily silent speedster did.

Pleasure skyrocketed and became pain-edged, walking that thin line between bliss and agony as Drift somehow consciously controlled his internal mechanisms to bring Ratchet into contact with the entrance valve of his internal chamber in what had to be record time.

When it was there Drift stopped, broadcasting smug impatience that made Ratchet wish for the ability to move and flick the Ovaria’s audial housing. Instead he growled as the head of his aedeagus locked to Drift’s valve, coaxing the tightly-closed mechanisms to relax and part ever-so-slightly as the first ampulla moved into place inside him, beginning the trip from his frame to the Ovaria who needed what it contained more than any other Ratchet had met in his life.

Their claspers moved in gentle waves to match EM Fields, massaging the short length of Ratchet’s aedeagus that remained exposed to the room and ensuring everything within their reach was well-lubricated. When he felt the slight bulge of the first ampulla enter his valve Drift stiffened, once again using that uncanny control of his callipers to actually _play_ with it as it moved towards his chamber. Ratchet growled, twitching and trembling as Drift investigated the soft lump, alternately halting its progress and squeezing at it or assisting its onwards. Once again it rode the edge between excruciating and exquisite and Ratchet wasn’t sure if he was going to survive the rest of the night.

When the first ampulla reached his internal valve the Ovaria stopped messing around and let it pass through without interference. The sudden bloom of intense curiosity in Drift’s Field was both encouraging and concerning and the Incubator almost dreaded the rest of the process.

The second and third went much the same, pleasured satisfaction slowly creeping into Drift’s Field as each one passed from Ratchet’s aedeagus to his chamber. By the fourth the Ovaria was purring, deliberately encouraging smooth transference while Ratchet had abandoned any pretence of trying to control his Field or vocaliser, trilling and groaning and leaving everything open for Drift to sense if he chose.

It took almost a dozen before Drift’s internal valve started twitching against the head of Ratchet’s aedeagus, signalling that his chamber was approaching capacity. When the last passed inside the valve twitched decisively and Ratchet felt his aedeagus disengage, bracing himself for an assisted exit as abrupt as the original penetration had been. To his surprise Drift simply sighed and allowed him to slide gently out, discomfort resurfacing in his Field until Ratchet’s aedeagus had withdrawn entirely, retreating deep within the Incubator’s frame again.

Carefully, Ratchet released Drift’s horn and licked gently at the light impressions his denta had left in the battered white enamel. When he tried to disengage his claspers Drift made a strange, choked-off sound. Ratchet froze.

“Wait a bit?” The Ovaria’s voice crackled with static. “That feels weird but it’s a _good_ kind of weird.”

It was an odd request but one Ratchet was willing to indulge if it built positive associations to counteract the bad ones next time Drift needed this. He wrapped Drift in his Field, broadcasting acceptance, relaxation and strut-deep contentment.

“Fine by me, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drift's control of his internal valve mechanisms was learned the hard way, to make the johns overload faster and also to minimise the damage when taking a large spike without preparation.


	35. Rung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunter is unleashed upon an unsuspecting Ratchet and Drift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I got sick as fuck so guess what I decided to work on again? Something I don't have to be so fussy with. Because nitpicking everything gets really fucking tiring and sometimes you just want to WRITE.  
> Also I really really really want to get this moving to get to the fun parts because OH GOD IT GETS SO CUTE AFTER THE DARKNESS AND I NEED TO TORTURE YOU WITH THE SICKLY SWEET FLUFFY BITS and these guys deserve nice things.
> 
> In the meantime we're heading into some darkfic and unethical science territory. Let me know if you want the tags updated.

# Thirty-Five: Rung

 

Rung waited at the back of the strike team. Held in reserve, in his smaller Cybertronian form and holding his ablative shielding up steadily between himself and the target. The first time they had done this he hadn’t been given any special defences and had become a liability as a result.

So the shield that marked him. As if he needed to stand out any more.

Around him, the Cybertronians making up the rest of the team kept their distance as best they could, ignoring him unless they needed to give him orders. He waited, patient and obedient as the strike team moved into position around the target’s apartment. Then the countdown came and he braced himself, curling up and making himself as small as he could behind his shield.

::Three… two… one… fire in the hole::

A muffled explosion rumbled through the building, the EMP burst preceding the physical shockwave by a split second. The Cybertronians around Rung shivered and twitched as it passed over their specialised plating. Even behind his shield the disorientation was enough to make Rung stumble and retch before he regained control of himself, locking his joints until he was sure he could move smoothly again. His antennae felt like they had been dipped in acid, sensors damaged by the intensity of the explosion.

Electromagnetic weapons were one of the most effective ways to subdue his kind.

::Get in there::

The voice of his handler over comms, the voice of Authority had the Hunter rising, discarding his shield as he transformed.

All around him mechs flinched or moved away as his plating shifted, frame exploding upwards and outwards in a swirl of aching pieces until the puzzle rearranged itself. His horns pickled hotly in the aftermath of the EMP blast but he ignored it easily. The strike team left him a clear path to his target. Conscious thought receded, leaving him incapable of appreciating the comfortable apartment as he extended his claws, flexing his fingers to test their responsiveness after catching the edge of the pulse-wave. Slightly numb but otherwise functional enough to serve. He was to gain control of the other Ovaria by any means necessary, and if for some reason the fight progressed past EM Fields then he would need to be ready.

Before him was the berthroom door, unlocked and appearing surprisingly stronger than it looked as the Hunter pushed it open, all senses on alert as he scanned the room beyond. Berth frame of good quality but obviously unused, the edge of a well-disguised nest trailing out from behind the end of it. The room reeked of interfacing; ozone and lubricants mixing with an Incubator musk that made his mouth water.

Then pained sounds reached his audials, the familiar noises of miserable Syngnathi.

Something moved on the other side of the berth. White horns rose into sight, weaving unsteadily as an Ovaria struggled to push himself up with uncooperative limbs. The hunter took two long, silent strides closer, keeping his Field pulled close as he observed what he could before the other two noticed his presence. His guess had been the right one; they’d sent him after the medic and the speedster from Rodion.

They were lying entwined, Ovaria sprawled atop the Incubator in a position that could have been innocent until Rung looked lower and saw open panels and drooping claspers damaged by the blast. The Ovaria was much larger than Rung anticipated, tall and with a massive reach advantage if things turned physical. Thankfully he seemed to be in a terrible state; clearly underweight and malnourished and suffering strongly from the after-effects of the EMP.

The movement was actually caused by the Incubator trying to assist the smaller Syngnath off him and over to the side, likely so he could roll over and purge his tanks without choking if his Field was anything to go by.

Rung watched impassively, waiting for the best moment. If he attacked too early then his established status wouldn’t be strong enough, the young Ovaria would challenge him again as soon as he could, as often as he could until their relative standing was so firmly established it couldn’t be questioned any more.

Suddenly the Incubator saw him, blue optics focusing over the Ovaria’s shoulder. Recognition, horror and desperate panic surged outward from the Incubator-medic. His vocaliser crackled, whatever he had been trying to say emerging as useless noise.

Rung waited for his moment.

In this, _he_ was the expert, he was the master and he had all the time in the world make sure he carried out his objective properly.

Finally the Ovaria began to stir, no doubt prompted by the Incubator’s increasingly frantic EMF and the jolting of his frame as the medic’s limbs refused to respond properly, jarring him instead of lifting smoothly. Rung waited as long as he felt he could, hyperaware of the cybertronians waiting outside and the limited timeframe they were operating on. He let his own Field slide out, cool and predatory, waiting for the Ovaria to notice him.

It didn’t take long, not with the steadily increasing panic in the Incubator’s Field. Those terror-bright optics stared up at Rung like so many had before, seeking mercy and finding none.

Another Field swept out, resonating with rage as the Ovaria’s hand shot out, claws digging into the edge of the berth as he hauled himself upright. Taking great care not to step on the Incubator, the Ovaria turned to fix Rung with a murderous glare, engine rumbling threateningly as armour slowly flared. Even with the younger Syngnath towering over his true form it was a far less intimidating display than it was intended to be. The Ovaria’s malnourished frame trembled and twitched in the aftermath of the EMP blast. He was clearly disoriented and having trouble with his gyros despite the way his dull yellow optics strayed over Rung’s frame, sizing him up. The raw strength of the younger Ovaria’s Field would have been a concern if he wasn’t so obviously inexperienced.

The Hunter allowed himself a smile.

Confusion flared in the Ovaria’s Field as he bared jagged denta in a snarl, visibly preparing himself to attack.

_Now!_

The Hunter’s Field shifted, going from passive monitoring to actively offensive in the blink of an eye. The younger Ovaria was caught off-guard, obviously not expecting this despite the fact that it was the natural course of things. He flailed desperately in Rung’s hold, sloppy and uncoordinated against the relentless onslaught of the older, infinitely more skilled Ovaria. In bare seconds he had established his rank, the speedster wobbling and dropping to his knees in the nest with a muffled thud as a weak Filed-overload rippled through his systems and settled his social protocols into the configuration the masters had demanded.

_You will not question my authority now…_

With that taken care of, the Hunter turned his optics to the other Syngnath in the nest.

The Incubator had pushed himself up onto his elbows during the extremely brief dominance struggle. As Rung broadened his attention again his Field encountered the medic’s horror and disbelief, the sharp stabs of abject terror giving way to a sinkhole of deepest despair.

An uncontrollable upsurge of deepest instinctual coding hijacked Rung’s frame briefly. He took one faltering step towards the downed Incubator before blinding pain sent him to his knees, clutching his helm as irreoncilable conflicts between different lines of code raged through his meta.

The floor beneath him vibrated as the rest of the team entered, fracturing his conscioussness to the point where he wasn’t aware of being forced into stasis. Awakening from it was like the slow, painful grinding of cold gears forced back into motion.

Scattered fragments of sound became words, coalesced into snatched phrases and finally became whole sentences as his entire psyche seemed to start over again from scratch.

“So which ones should we use?” That was a new voice, one he didn’t recall hearing before.

“Whichever will give us the greater odd of success, obviously.” A voice he knew, this time.

“The youngest of this type needs to be both detoxed and restored to optimal physical condition before we can even consider it’s use.” A cultured voice Rung knew and despised. “The fact that it entered a reproductive cycle at all in it’s state is something of a minor miracle.”

Murmuring too low for Rung to make out, then:

“The preexisting attachment between the pair captured by this one could be used to explore whether or not they’re capable of forming true social attachments.” The despised voice, coming closer to where Rung lay.

“Impossible.” Someone scoffed. “It’s mating and offspring-rearing instinct, pure and simple. Without the chemical signals and associated code-strings they’d eat eachother as well as their young.”

“We will need to keep those two in stasis while the younger is restored to health. It will take some time, so I’d suggest you both submit research proposals while we wait.” The voice of Authority, one of the Masters intruded on the conversation before it could devolve into an argument. “If either of you fail to convince the Council then the pair shall remain in stasis indefinitely to be used as backup should either of the first choices for the main experiment fail for some reason.”

Curiosity pricked at Rung. His optics popped online without permission.

Muttered assent from the chastised scientists became white noise as someone jacked into one of his medical ports and began to run a thorough analysis of his systems.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND IT BEGINS. We have reached the point where I FINALLY figured out where this was actually going and now we have ACTUAL PROPER DIRECTION AND PLOT.
> 
> It's gonna get dark as fuck for a while, then worrisome and scary but ultimately things WILL turn out well for all four of our Syngnath here. Nobody is gonna die. They are going to suffer like nothing else but NONE OF THEM WILL DIE.
> 
> SPOILERCOUGHSomeonetellDaiAtlastopackafuckloadofheadachemeds,he'sgonnaneedthemCOUGHSPOILER


	36. Rung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What looks like a reprieve may be too good to be true.  
> Rung has more than enough experience by now to recognise this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TAGS HAVE BEEN UPDATED FOR THE THIS PLOT ARC  
> This is going to be mostly dark with little patches of less horrible while they're at the Institute.

# THIRTY-SIX: RUNG

 

From medical Rung returned to his room, his cage, his cell.

There wasn’t an appropriate glyph for the place.

As always the door locked behind him. Opened and controlled only form the outside, never by him. The first thing he did was check for additions to the space. When he could find none he collected what berth material he had been left, piled it comfortably and crawled into the graceless heap to rest.

Recharge was precious and he hoarded every scrap he could get, even learning how to recharge while in any number of uncomfortable places and situations.

They had another use for him. One that also involved the flightframe Incubator, the Senator. Flighted Incubators were incredibly rare. Rung had been so surprised he’d stared openly for several seconds too long, almost alerting the other Syngnath to his presence.

_Should have done it, should have warned him…_

Traitorous spark-whisper of regret on the edge of sleep. Higher processes already powered down so clumsy coding wouldn’t catch them.

They had another use for him. Awareness of that fact followed him back into wakefulness and chilled him slowly from the inside out. He tried not to think about it. Over the years he’d gotten very good at not thinking about certain things. Then at not thinking at all.

Curled in the middle of his allotted bedding Rung studied the weave of a blanket illuminated by the glow of his optics and waited. There was no telling how long he would be left alone. He would stay where he was until someone came, or fuel appeared in the wall slot, or recharge claimed him again.

Nobody came to collect him, nobody arrived with orders. He recharged for naps several hours at a time, waking to listen and not-think or rearrange his bedding when it became uncomfortable. Bland, nutritious fuel appeared at regular intervals from a floor-level dispenser. Each time one appeared he would be on it in a flash, drinking the fuel in quick, careful swallows and dispersing the Field before anyone could take it from him.

Curiosity and dread curled through the deliberate numbness he cultivated after the third such cube. Full tanks, optimal nutrient ratio. It was strange. Not unprecedented, but definitely out of the ordinary for sedentary confinement.

_What are they?..._

It would be better not to think about it, not to think at all.

Eventually, even though he wasn’t doing anything other than recharge and fuel the ambient temperature in his room began to increase. It was slow, beginning after the fifth cube. It could very easily be someone playing with the thermostat, something Rung accepted as a possibility right up until the first dream.

He awoke with a moan, twisting in the blankets as lubricant flowed from his open panels. When Rung realised what was happening he froze, deliberately cycling his next inhalation past specific chemoreceptors.

It wasn’t the thermostat.

He was entering a heat cycle.

A tortured keen ripped it’s way free of his vocaliser as Rung began to grasp the shape of what was to come.


End file.
